Twisted Lies
by Sky Writes
Summary: John's search for his missing sister leads him to a hotel known for its drugs scene. While there he discovers Sherlock has fallen back into his old habits. But is everything what it seems? And what does all of this have to do with members of the Homeless Network disappearing? Based on Doyle's "The Man With the Twisted Lip".
1. Swandam Lane

Author's Note: Welcome to my newest story! This will be a work-in-progress, and it is based on Doyle's _The Man With the Twisted Lip_. The first chapter is fairly dark, but not all of the story will be that way.

Warnings: references to drugs throughout

* * *

"John, are you sure you want to do this?"

Lifting his head from the window, John Watson offered a weak nod. His stomach was twisted in deep knots, and his eyes- his eyes were colored with exhaustion. A glance in the mirror revealed a pale face, hardened with fear.

"John," Lestrade stated. John turned toward him, but he still he couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes. "It will be okay. She'll be okay."

He felt like he might be sick.

"She's my _sister_," John sighed. "How did I not know…how could she? How…"

"Look at me." John obeyed, tears threatening to break through. Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself to regain control. "Have you talked to Sherlock about this?"

He had a bad feeling about where Lestrade was going with this. Sherlock rarely spoke about his history with drugs, and he spoke even less about rehab. John couldn't even be sure if he even went to rehab. And he wasn't sure if he wanted Sherlock giving his sister advice about recovery.

John shook his head.

"Sherlock's still missing in action," he admitted. "I haven't seen him all week."

Lestrade let out a deep sigh and shut off the engine.

"You do know that if we find her, and she's in possession-"

He'd have to arrest her.

"I know."

"I can do this on my own," Lestrade offered.

John's eyes flashed toward him, warning him to stop pestering him.

"Can we just go?"

Lestrade nodded. The two stepped out of the squad car. They stood out like sore thumbs amongst the stench and trash of the alleys behind what was known as the "Bar of Gold". The bar was hidden in the basement of a hotel, long abandoned since its hayday in the 1930s. The hotel was currently at the center of a major drug investigation, and when John went to Lestrade with concerns of his sister being missing for days- after last being seen in this side of town- they both knew the likelihood of finding her here.

As beggars shook their cans of loose change and hungover drunks ran passed them, John felt more than a little uncomfortable. He pulled his suede jacket more closely around him, and he couldn't help but to keep aware of the weight of the wallet in his pocket.

Lestrade ascended the steps up to the hotel rooms first. Addicts, young and old, slid down the walls of the halls, completely displaced from reality. John swallowed nervously, and he noticed that even Lestrade was tense. With each step he dreaded the state they'd find his sister.

A group of young adults, probably in their early twenties, blocked their entry into the main corridor.

"Money?" The oldest of the kids snorted. The kid held out an empty hand as his friends burst into fits of laughter around him. "Gotta have money to get by, old man."

Normally, John might have laughed at that, but his eyes roared with anger as he clenched his fists inside the pockets of his jacket. Lestrade looked like he was seconds away from arresting the entire pack of kids. Instead, Lestrade withdrew the picture of Harry John gave him the night before. The knots in his stomach twisted even tighter at the sight of his sister in the photograph. She looked so young there, so unknowing of the trouble she would find herself in.

"This girl was reported missing by her brother forty-eight hours ago," Lestrade announced, holding the photograph up so that everyone in the corridor could see it. John's eyes sank to the floor, desperately hoping no one would notice the family-resemblance between him and his sister. "If anyone so much as tries to…_knick my wallet_!" He shouted the last bit, rounding on a homeless man who was standing, wide eyed, beside the detective inspector. The man slowly handed the wallet back. "You may find yourself a person of interest in the case. So tell me, has anyone here seen her?"

The crowd pointed in unison to the last door on the right side of the corridor. John broke into a run as he tore past Lestrade. He sidestepped unconscious men and pushed aside each hungover teenager that tried to get in the way. He stopped at the closed door, resting his head on it for a moment. Closing his eyes, he briefly wondered why this door was closed when all the others were open.

"It's unlocked."

He looked up, surprised to see Lestrade beside him. Their eyes met, and John knew he was looking for permission. He nodded, and the D.I. gently opened the door.

The lights in the room were dim, but John could still make out two figures collapsed in the tangles of sheets on the bed. He was certain he was going to be sick as he rushed forward. He was almost more horrified than relieved to see his sister there, the sheets drawn to her bare shoulders. A man who was nearly ten years older than her lay beside her, turned away from them.

"Christ," he whispered, the words dry and sickened from the bile rising in his throat. "Harry!"

"John-"

He ignored Lestrade's warning as his trembling fingers felt her neck for a pulse. A shaky sigh of relief escaped when he found one- but it was so faint that tears instantly appeared in his eyes.

"She's bad, Greg. She's- god she's so _pale_."

"So are you," Lestrade shot, pulling him back. "I'm calling in the paramedics."

"No!" He exclaimed in horror. "I'm a doctor. No one else is touching her, okay?"

His entire body was shaking now. He ran a hand through Harry's short, dirty-blonde hair. The stench from the bed signaled that she hadn't showered in days.

Then he caught sight of her arm, and he had to hold a hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting.

"Oh god," he whispered, "oh god…_god_."

It was all he could say, over and over again, as he grabbed her arm and ran a finger over the series of angry-red track marks.

"God," he mumbled again.

He felt himself falling until Lestrade's hand was suddenly on his shoulder.

"Let me call a paramedic," Lestrade said, more quietly this time, "she's needs a hospital."

"Greg-"

He could barely speak as his eyes found the source of what caused the track marks. Needles and empty baggies, colored with few remains of white powder. He recalled Lestrade's warnings in the car, but suddenly- no matter how well he understood the law- he wanted to do everything in his power to stop him from arresting her.

"As far as I'm concerned it's too early to determine who the drugs belonged to," Lestrade said. John let out another trembling sigh. On top of everything, the exhaustion from being awake with worry for the past two days was catching up to him. "She needs help, John. I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure she gets it.

"She's barely breathing," John whispered as he checked her pulse again. "She could have, she almost-"

"She didn't."

John nodded, appreciating the sympathy. He collapsed onto the floor and grasped his sister's hand in his own. Tears were flowing freely now. A few choked sobs escaped him, and his head fell to the edge of the bed. A comforting hand appeared on his shoulder; he had never felt more embarrassed around Lestrade. _How_ did he not know what was going on?

"How did I let this happened?" He whispered to himself.

"You didn't," Lestrade stated quietly. He sounded as though he felt ill himself.

John's eyes trailed up to Lestrade. They stung from the tears and were stained a desperate shade of red from crying.

"This isn't her," John began, fighting to find his voice. "This isn't her, she…she's had problems with drinking, yes. But drugs? No, no someone brought her into this. Someone did this to her. Someone set her down the wrong path."

Lestrade nodded, sympathetic, but his mobile turned over in his hands. He was clearly ready to bring in the paramedics and get out of there.

"We'll figure it out," Lestrade promised. "Can I call for help?"

His eyes turned again to his sister. She was so still…so grey. Like she was wondering a little too closely to death's door. Her hand felt far too lifeless. He knew she couldn't remain here. He nodded and closed his eyes.

John stayed by her side until the paramedics came. He wasn't sure what Lestrade did with the man's body, but he refused to move from his spot beside his sister until she was carried out of the room. John stumbled through the hallways, almost feeling as empty as the zoned-out people wondering around him. He almost reached the staircase before something caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

In one of the rooms lay a young man, curled into a ball near the doorway as he slept with his back turned towards the corridor. The man's head was hidden in his arms as he slept. His chest just barely moved up and down. A black hoodie was drawn almost all the way up the man's neck. His body convulsed with shivers. When John reached down to check his pulse, he found the young man's skin freezing cold. He reached down to pull back a few sweaty curls that clung to the man's face- and froze.

"Lestrade!" He shouted. His own heartbeat came to a rapid stop. Lestrade appeared beside him, joining him as he knelt down beside the man.

"What's wrong?"

John swallowed, unable think, unable to even begin to take in what he had stumbled upon. His voice shook violently when he spoke.

"You might want to call for another ambulance." He carefully rolled the man over so that Lestrade could see him. "It's Sherlock."

* * *

Author's Note: It's not what it looks like...or is it? Let me know what you think!


	2. Waking Up

Warning: Reminder, this story has serious warnings for drug use, which includes discussion of addiction and withdrawal.

* * *

He and Lestrade chased the paramedics as they entered the lobby of the A&E. John struggled to keep up as his eyes flashed from his sister to Sherlock. Both lay equally as still on their separate stretchers. Both already had a team of nurses crowding them, checking vitals and asking questions.

"Does the patient have a history of drug abuse?"

John looked up, surprised to find a young doctor walking beside him._ Did_ Harry do drugs?

"No," he said. He had to take a step back and remember that the doctors needed information to help with treatment, not to judge either of them. "Not that I know of. But she does have a history of alcohol-"

"No, I'm talking about the man," the doctor interrupted.

Eyes falling on his unconscious flatmate, John froze. He remembered clearly Lestrade's drugs bust and how terrified Sherlock looked the night. But he always had some hope that maybe Sherlock was simply worried about the police finding something else- like the experiments in the fridge.

"Yes."

A hand rested on his shoulder, and John looked up to find Lestrade standing beside him.

"Can you tell me about it?" The doctor asked.

Lestrade nodded, and then turned to him.

"I'll look after Sherlock," he promised. "Take care of your sister."

John nodded and covered his eyes with his hands. His skin was cold and clammy, and he shaking with anxiety.

"Are you alright, sir?" The doctor asked.

"He's fine," Lestrade lied. "John, it will be okay.

"Yeah," John said, "yeah, okay…just, keep me posted."

"Of course."

With that he noticed Harry's doctors turn a corner.

"I've got to go," John announced.

He fled after the doctors, but as soon as he caught up with them he was pulled to the side once again.

"I'm Doctor Wiseman." A hand was held out to him, and John shook it. He couldn't help but to notice how young the doctor was- younger than Sherlock's doctor, and younger than he himself. "I'll be taking over your sister's case. Did I hear you say she had a history of alcohol abuse?"

His eyes flashed back to the group of nurses taking care of his sister. He was able to get one last glance of Harriet's stiff, pale, hand hanging over the stretcher before they wheeled her into a room.

"Yes," he admitted. "She's off and on, clean and abusive. We actually just started talking again for the first time in weeks…she promised she'd clean up her act again."

The doctor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, but John ignored the fake sympathy. Why hadn't he taken her more seriously? Why did he not get her help immediately?

"Just take a deep breath," the doctor said, much more calmly this time. "We'll take good care of her. But I have to warn you, heroin overdose-"

"Wait, what?"

His heart rate increased so rapidly he was sure he'd break. His hands grasped at his head; his palms pressed against his forehead, trying to squeeze out the pressure.

"How- how do you know it's heroin?" He managed, stumbling over his words.

"Her heart rate, which is almost non-existent. Her lips and fingernails, already a shade of blue. Her pupils, her low blood pressure. And the fact the paramedics brought back sample of what is, without a doubt, heroin."

"But Harry wouldn't do that," John said, searching desperately for reasoning. "She can be thick, and her history with alcohol doesn't exactly make her a saint, but-"

"Trust me, Mr. Watson, we see cases like hers every day."

"_Doctor._ It's Dr. Watson."

This didn't earn him any sympathy. Arms crossed, Dr. Wiseman glared at him, not amused.

"Right. Well then, _Doctor_, surely you can understand that we're simply trying to do our jobs. So either you can cooperate and help us figure out what happened, or you can remain in the waiting room."

* * *

The beeping drone of hospital machinery did no favors in his fight to stay awake. It was now well into the afternoon, and John sat alone in Sherlock's room, gazing at his best friend's still body. After the doctors refused to allow him to assist with Harry's case, he had better luck helping with Sherlock. Now that Lestrade was back at the precint, he was left alone. Left to wait.

The door suddenly opened, and John jumped, head spinning at the sound. Mycroft Holmes appeared in the room.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, his voice soft and lacking its usual strength. "But I was told this is where Sherlock is."

John nodded and stood. He wondered over to the monitors as Mycroft stepped into the room, with almost a child-like hesitation.

"Thank you for calling me," Mycroft stated quietly.

Mycroft lingered by the end of the bed, hand hovering above his brother's feet. As his eyes roamed Sherlock's stiff body, taking in the jungle of tubes connected to his face and arms, John couldn't help but to admit he felt bad for him. After all, he knew what he was going through.

"Any idea what Sherlock was doing on Swandam Lane?" John asked.

"The last I heard from Sherlock he was working on a case," Mycroft admitted. "That was Sunday."

John nodded, but didn't reply.

"I take it you haven't seen him since?"

He shook his head, and the guilt returned.

"It's not like it isn't unusual for him to run off," John sighed.

"Trust me, I know."

John reached for Sherlock's chart and began filling Mycroft in.

"He didn't OD, but he came close. He was extremely lucky. The heroin is what really got him-"

"Heroin?"

He looked up to meet Mycroft's stunned, confused, eyes.

"Heroin's not his style," Mycroft explained.

John stared at him.

"His style?" He shot. "He almost killed himself by taking a mixture of cocaine and heroin. _Stupidity_ is apparently his style."

Mycroft snatched the file out of his hands and began browsing through it, with expert eyes. He began shaking his head desperately.

"None of this, none of this is Sherlock," Mycroft said.

"Look, I hate to have to accept it as much as you do-"

Mycroft took a step toward him, throwing the file at him. Their eyes met, and he couldn't recall ever seeing Mycroft so _afraid_. Until that moment, he never would have thought that possible.

"Did Sherlock ever tell you how he got into drugs?" Mycroft asked, speaking quietly, as though afraid his unconscious brother might overhear. John shook his head, never taking his eyes off him. "One Christmas break during university he was in an…accident of sorts. The doctors put him on a heavy dosage of pain killers, which he soon became addicted to. He got curious, and of course it was more than easy for him to find ways to experiment at a university. He never finished school. He dropped out, refused my help- and he'd long since stopped talking to our father. This Homeless Network of his, they're not just a group of kids who like to be around him. They're his old friends."

"You're telling me Sherlock was homeless?" John said softly.

His eyes trailed to his flatmate, who suddenly seemed further away than ever.

"Yes," Mycroft replied coldly, "and they were nearly the death of him."

Crossing his arms, John leaned against the counter. Mycroft browsed through the file as John remained silent. How could Sherlock never tell him about this?

Then again, how many of his own secrets did he keep from Sherlock?

But _this_…

"You know, it's usually preferable to inform a potential flatmate if you're a drug addict. Or were, anytime recently. Or…ever."

Mycroft only smirked.

"Sherlock never considered himself an addict," he replied. "He considered addicts people who had no control over themselves."

"And he had control?"

"Does it look like he has control?" Mycroft said.

Both of their eyes fell on Sherlock. Mycroft crossed over toward his brother and placed a hand on his arm.

"I thought we were passed this," Mycroft admitted, quietly. "Sherlock ended up in hospital on more than a couple occasions. Eventually he scared himself, I think. When he met Lestrade and started helping the police he swore to Lestrade he would stay clean. There have been times when we have wondered…but as best as I could tell he kept his word."

Mycroft fell silent, looking sick with guilt. The more John studied the monitors behind Sherlock, the more he took in the bruises that littered his friend's arms and ghostly white skin, the more none of this made sense.

"I just don't understand how he could just end up at that…that place," John said. "I mean, you watch him like a bloody hawk and you didn't know?"

"You're his flatmate, and you didn't know."

Their eyes met, and John was met with the cold realization that Mycroft wasn't as forgiving as he thought.

"And tell me, John, how long have you known about your sister's habits?"

John stood up a little straighter and took an accusing step toward Mycroft.

"That's not fair."

Suddenly, Mycroft's eyes softened, and John realized he was testing him.

"I'm sorry about your sister, John," Mycroft's words were more honest than he had ever heard before. "I promise, I am just as concerned about Sherlock as you are of Harriet."

John paled at the sound of his sister's names. Being so detached from her only made him more desperately anxious to see her.

"I just don't understand it," John sighed, turning back to Sherlock. "I don't care what those files say. This isn't _him_. And it isn't her either."

He placed a hand on Sherlock's scared arm, but as soon as he did so the beeps of the machines sped up a bit. His heart pounded as he checked his friend's vitals. He grabbed onto Sherlock's hand, willing him to regain consciousness.

A finger twitched against his palm.

"Perhaps we'll get some answers soon," Mycroft said. They both watched as Sherlock's eyes began to flutter open. "He's waking up."

* * *

Author's Note: We will get to the mystery of the story soon! You heard one version of Sherlock's history with drugs...you'll hear Sherlock's version later. Thanks for all the support so far! Let me know what you think of the new chapter!


	3. A Broken Promise

**Author's Notes:** This chapter is short, but there are some clues in here. Also, you'll begin to notice here that although this story is based on Doyle's original "The Man With The Twisted Lip", I've changed the story a bit.

**Warnings:** Continued references to drug use throughout the story.

* * *

John jumped back as Sherlock's eyes shot open and he shot up in bed. The monitors behind him sounded off in response; out of control beeping filled the room as Mycroft stared down his brother, just daring him to explain himself.

He blinked, stunned at what was happening, and he had to remind himself his friend needed his help.

"Just breathe, Sherlock," John instructed.

Sherlock didn't obey. His hands roamed his bare chest, examining the mass of wires hooked up to his body. John checked his vitals. Sherlock remained completely still as he checked his pulse. Bloodshot eyes danced between John and Mycroft, making him feel slightly uncomfortable. He could have sworn it seemed Sherlock had been listening to them the enter time.

"Just breathe," he said again, more calmly. Sherlock obeyed.

The long, slow, breaths quickly turned into raspy coughs.

"It's okay," John said. "Sit back."

Slowly, Sherlock sank back into the bed. His wild eyes gazed up at the ceiling; a shadow of dread seemed to fill them as his flatmate realized where he was.

"The cavalry is here!" Sherlock exclaimed, words slurred. "You're a bit late."

He sounded like he was hungover, and it had John worried about the effect the drugs still had on his system.

"Do you remember what happened?" John asked as he examined Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock blinked at the light and flinched, as though someone were hurting him.

"Why don't you check your phone?" Sherlock shot.

John stared at him, taken aback by Sherlock's glare. What had he done wrong now? With a sigh he took out his mobile, scrolled through his text, only to find…

_On a case. Help? - SH_

_Upper Swandam Lane. Help? –SH_

_Lestrade's not answering. Help? - SH_

All dated last Sunday- the day Sherlock went MIA. John groaned and pocketed the mobile.

"I was really slammed at work that day."

It was a pitiful lie, and everyone in the room knew it.

"I thought you quit that job," Sherlock mumbled.

"Yes, and then you decided that taking cases was too good for you, and I still had to eat, so I needed the money!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Eating is overrated."

"Enough!" Both of them looked to Mycroft in surprise. Sherlock's older brother turned away for a moment, hand raised to his forehead as he tried to keep calm. "Sherlock…you promised."

John frowned, confused, as he looked from brother to brother. Sherlock paled. His eyes trailed down to the hospital bed. _Shame._ John wasn't sure he ever saw that look on Sherlock's face before.

"I know," Sherlock whispered.

At last Mycroft looked at his little brother. _Hurt._

"Promised what?" John asked quietly.

"That I stay off drugs," Sherlock admitted, his voice uncharacteristically low as his hands sat in his lap. Like a child. "I was allowed to work with the police, if I stayed off drugs." He looked up at his brother, pleading with him. "But it's not like that."

"Oh?" Mycroft shot. He began to pace the room. "Then tell me what it's like, Sherlock? Because from what I can see, my brother almost died today because he was stupid enough to take drugs and mix cocaine with heroin!"

Sherlock's eyes lit up to John with surprise.

"I didn't take heroin!" Sherlock exclaimed. "John- I promise. I didn't take heroin. I've never tried it. I don't remember-"

"You don't remember!" Mycroft cried, laughing sarcastically. "Oh, that's alright then. He doesn't remember."

"Shut up, will you?" John snapped. "Sherlock, what do you remember?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and threw himself back into the pillows. _Mind palace._

"The wife of an old friend of mine came to me for help- yes John, a friend," Sherlock snapped at him without even opening his eyes. John immediately closed his mouth, embarrassed that he would even think of commenting. "Hugh Boone."

"You swore to me you'd never talk to Boone again!" Mycroft exploded. "Not after-"

Suddenly Sherlock's eyes flew open. He stared down Mycroft, warning him not to continue.

"Hugh's been missing," Sherlock said, looking to John now. Obviously he expected more sympathy from him, though John wasn't sure _what_ to think."

"What does all this have to do with Upper Swandam Lane, Sherlock?" John asked. "The drugs…"

"Hugh's been missing for a week," Sherlock continued, "his wife is afraid it has to do with Neville St. Claire."

"St. Claire?" Mycroft shot. _Terrified._ Now that was something he never saw in Mycroft before.

"Who's Neville St. Claire?" John asked. He was almost afraid to interrupt the two again. The brothers stared at each other once again; he wasn't sure which of them looked more frightened.

"Neville St. Claire," Mycroft interrupted dryly, as he glared at his brother. "Surely you've heard of him by now, through your work with the police."

John looked between the two. Sherlock was desperately avoiding meeting his eyes, while Mycroft seemed positively disgusted by it all.

"St. Claire is a drug dealer," Mycroft explained, never taking his eyes away from Sherlock. "One the most dangerous drug dealers in all of London, in fact. He's been wanted by the police for decades, but he's untraceable. The only person who has ever been able to detect his whereabouts…is my brother."


	4. Watson's Assignment

Warnings: Continued warnings for references to drug use throughout the story.

* * *

He was beyond expecting answers from Mycroft. John learned long ago that if he wanted the truth he had to get it out of Sherlock himself, and he learned the perfect way to do that: through guilt. Sherlock's eyes locked with his, and he could already see the consulting detective was ridden with guilt.

"John-" Sherlock tried, but he couldn't get passed the dryness of his throat.

He stood perfectly stiff. Too much was going through his mind to worry about some secret from Sherlock's past.

"Can we just fast forward to the part where we find you inside a drugs house?" John asked quietly. "A few doors down from where my sister was passed out."

Judging by his eyes, which were stretched with horror, Sherlock didn't understand.

"Do you not know or do you not remember?" John shot.

"That's not fair!" Sherlock protested. "John, I swear- this was all for a case. If I knew Harry was there-"

A knock at the door interrupted him, and Lestrade's head poked into the room. Sherlock threw his head back against the pillows, groaning dramatically in frustration.

"Are you here to lecture me too?" Sherlock shot, glaring daggers at Lestrade.

Lestrade simply slipped into the room and leaned against the wall, unaffected by the state Sherlock was in. Crossing his arms, Lestrade remained calm as he replied:

"Not yet. I actually would like to get your take on what happened."

"Is this an official statement?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Off the record," Lestrade offered.

John glanced to Mycroft, who was clearly annoyed with Lestrade's casual perception of what was happening.

"Nice of you to joins us, Detective Inspector. Sherlock was just telling us about how he was hanging out with Hugh Boone."

"_Boone?!"_ Lestrade exclaimed, so loudly footsteps scurried to a stop outside the door. "Christ, Sherlock, that's what this is about?"

"No!" Sherlock cried. His hands balled into fist, grasping at the bed sheets. Then he admitted: "Yes…but not like that. As I was _trying_ to say, Hugh's gone missing, and me being a _decent human being_ decided to go after him."

"Go after him?" John repeated.

He breathed slowly through his nose, wanting so badly to not lash out at Sherlock. But every instinct in his body was trying to do otherwise. He didn't understand how Lestrade was keeping so calm- but he suspected it was for the same reasons Lestrade remained Sherlock's only friend in his old days as a drug addict.

He could only hope they were just old days.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth. He was obviously upset no one was catching on. "He's a recovering cocaine addict going through a terrible divorce, with no support from his so-called friends because no one wants anything to do with him. Where would he go but back to his old habits?"

The room fell silent, and John knew he wasn't the only one who caught the double entendre.

"I asked around with some of the Homeless Network, and they admitted Hugh had been around the streets," Sherlock continued, "apparently he and his wife are going through a rough patch, though she'd never admit it. It spooked her when Hugh went missing…I guess she realized words can have consequences."

Sherlock stopped again. He stared at his hands, as though trying to hide from the three pairs of eyes studying him. At last he looked up- to John- his eyes filled with regret and fear. It was enough to make John anxious. He was desperate to know what was really going on.

"I'm sorry, John," he pleaded. "I had no idea about Harry, I swear."

Deep down, John knew Sherlock was right. He knew there was a high probability that it was just a coincidence that Sherlock ended up at the right place at the right time- and didn't know he should be stopping something tragic from happening. But he couldn't accept that this would leave him with no leads. He was terrified to admit this left no one to blame but himself.

So he nodded, wrapping his arms tightly around his check. He swirled around, shoving past Mycroft as he turned toward the door.

"John!" Sherlock called, his voice nearly trembling.

John refused to meet any of their eyes, as he mumbled:

"I'm going to see my sister."

* * *

When he first stepped into Sherlock's room, he was shocked. As angry as he was at his friend, John would have never wished upon him to look that bad, that ill. That close to death.

But Sherlock was nothing, _nothing_ compared to Harry.

If he blinked, she would stop breathing. John repeatedly stood up, rushing to check her vitals, just to make sure she was really there. The beeps of the machine were so painstakingly slow he wondered if he were imagining them.

Harry's skin was a yellowish pale, from head to toe. Her hair, a similar shade to his dark blonde, was frail and un-human. Her eyelids looked plastered into her skin, as though there were never eyeballs there, never those bright green eyes everyone always complimented her for. Dozens of tubes and wires crushed her. But what bothered him most was the _smell_. The stench was like someone had poured alcohol all over her and sprinkled it with vomit. The smell was suffocating, and he choked on his own breath more than once.

It was almost too frightening to be here. Part of him wanted to disappear, go back to Baker Street, hide away and bed and convince himself this wasn't happening. That both his sister and best friend weren't in the hospital.

But he couldn't move. He only sat there, his entire body trembling as he rocked back and forth, unsure of what to do.

There was a quiet knock at the door and John looked up, startled to see Mycroft's head in the doorway. John tried to say something, but his words came out as a stifle sob. He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the tears rushing down his cheeks.

"I'm a mess," he whispered.

It was embarrassing, to say the least, to be shaking like a leaf while Mycroft Holmes remained perfectly still, perfectly composed.

"Understandable," Mycroft offered softly.

His eyes drifted to Harry, but there wasn't a shade of emotion in them. Judging by his outburst in Sherlock's room, Mycroft had probably reached his emotional limit for the day. John couldn't help but to note Sherlock's brother was a shade paler than he normally was.

Perhaps this affected him more than he thought.

His hand shook madly as he brought it back to his lap. He clenched his fists against the seat of the chair, pushing himself back a bit, trying to remain steady. He was crying so much he was becoming dizzy.

He knew it went without saying that he owed Mycroft an explanation.

"She's in a coma," you could hear the tears in his words. He let out another choked sob as he raised his hand to his mouth, completely stunned by the shock he was in. "They say she'll come out of it, but they don't know when. Her body…it's too damaged."

Mycroft didn't say anything for a long time. He stared at the floor, and blood boiled within John as he realized Mycroft must be deciding if the situation was worth being concerned over.

Then Mycroft said something completely unexpected.

"Have you notified your parents?"

John looked up at him, shocked. The tears stopped for the first time as he realized _no_. He hadn't even thought of that.

"I can call them."

Mycroft sounded so sincere that John didn't even know what to think. Maybe it was his flatmate's brother's way of apologizing for all he had been put through. Maybe it was his way of acknowledging that he understood what John was going through. Whatever the reason, Mycroft withdrew his mobile.

"No," John stammered, holding out a hand to stop him, "they should hear this from me."

With a simple nod, Mycroft fell silent, as though he had done his part. It was then that John realized if Mycroft was here, it must have been because of something Sherlock did or said. He stole a glance toward the elder Holmes, who was staring at the hands rested in his lap, looking utterly defeated.

"Is Sherlock okay?" He asked quietly.

Mycroft cleared his throat; his voice sounded sore and exhausted when he spoke again.

"He threw me out," Mycroft admitted, "understandably. I am the one footing the bill for this latest hospital visit."

John let out a dry laugh. All of this and Mycroft was worried about _money_.

"I think he's telling the truth," Mycroft announced suddenly. John stared at him. Without looking at him, Mycroft explained: "I think he was being a good friend in the only way he knew how. He went to Swandam Lane looking for Boone, and somehow he ended up at the wrong place at the very wrong time. Perhaps he ran into an old enemy, or even St. Claire himself."

"He didn't tell you?" John asked.

Mycroft shook his head, looking more helpless than ever before.

"He's in there speaking with Lestrade."

"Sherlock trusts him?" John said. Mycroft nodded.

He never considered the relationship between Sherlock and Lestrade. John always took Lestrade as someone who simply put up with Sherlock and reaped the benefits: put up with a little weirdness, get a case solved. He never actually considered them as being _friends_. And he definitely didn't think Sherlock sincerely put much trust in Lestrade.

"Lestrade's given him a lot of second chances," Mycroft explained. "Which means if anyone's going to have a hard time forgiving him, it's the D.I."

Of course. If Sherlock had gotten into trouble with drugs before, and therefore probably the law, it was very possible that he crossed paths with Lestrade back then.

"I'm truly sorry about your sister," Mycroft said. "I feel like I should tell you, brother to brother-"

John let out another laugh, unable to believe what he was hearing. He rolled his eyes. His face was dry now, only tracks of tears remained.

"Oh please," he replied, "don't go soft now."

Mycroft smirked a little, but then his face fell. He looked almost gray in the face, much worse for wear than John had ever seen him before.

"Don't blame yourself," Mycroft stated quietly, "it's just not worth the pain."

With that Mycroft let out a slow breath and stood, heading toward the door. John stared after him, realizing the implications of his words. He never considered until then how _alike_ they were, both of them with siblings on the wrong side of the tracks. Suddenly he felt sorry for Mycroft, and he almost- _almost_- began to understand him.

When Mycroft stepped in the hall Lestrade was there to meet him. He looked just as tired as Mycroft did and just as exhausted as John felt. He lingered by the doorway, never looking toward Harry, as though he was physically unable to handle that pain at the moment.

"I believe him," Lestrade admitted, "I'm bloody pissed off at him, but I believe him. God help me." Closing his eyes briefly, Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his cool. "He says that he found Boone when he got to Swandam Lane, but Boone didn't believe he was there with good intentions. He knew Sherlock was working with the police, so I guess he was paranoid. Somehow- he didn't say- Sherlock convinced Boone to trust him, and Boone admitted he was there for a drug deal. He was working for St. Claire."

John swore under his breath, and Mycroft's face was officially now as white as a ghost.

"Sherlock got himself involved with a drug deal?" John said. He didn't know why his voice was shaking- anger, fear, or still the shock from Harry. Or all three.

Lestrade nodded, his body still stiff as though he were in a bit of shock himself.

"Boone was a bit on edge. Apparently he really needed the money from this deal," Lestrade said, "he had been out of work for months, and he was afraid of ending back up on the streets. Sherlock said it was probably an irrational fear, but he could tell Boone was truly going through a hard time. Sherlock agreed to hang around, he was worried about the state of his friend-"

"Wait," John said, holding up a trembling and, "are you telling me, that this guy _sells drugs_ and Sherlock was trying to help him? And he calls him a friend?"

Lestrade shrugged. John felt sick inside. Maybe being considered a friend by Sherlock didn't mean as much as he thought.

"Whatever his reasons, Sherlock felt obligated to help him," Lestrade said, "apparently he owes Boone a few favors, but I don't even want to know that story. Anyway the two went to meet the client out back in the alley. All Sherlock remembers is the guy's eyes growing wide and him taking out a knife."

John swore again.

"A knife?" Mycroft repeated.

Though he tried to hide it, John could still see the fear dancing in his eyes.

"Next thing Sherlock remembers, he was in the hotel, high as a kite. He knows he made some kind of connection about what was going on, but the next thing he remembered was being threatened…and then blacking out."

John truly thought he might be ill. Between the stench of the room and picturing the scene in his mind, he felt like he was caught in a surreal, alternate, reality.

"Do you think they forced him to take the drugs?" John asked quietly.

Even Mycroft looked like he might be sick at the thought. Lestrade sighed, raising a hand to his forehead as he admitted quietly:

"I don't know."

John let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. He didn't know what to think, where to _look_, because he was too afraid to see the state his sister was in. Another knock on the door drew him back to reality for a moment. A nurse walked stepped in, looking out of place and uncomfortable.

"Are you the family of Harriet Watson?" She asked quietly.

Bad news.

His heart sank. A sickening bile filled the pit in his stomach.

"I'm her brother," John announced, getting to his feet.

His legs felt entirely too weak, and the room suddenly felt entire too cold.

"Dr. Watson, isn't it?" The nurse said, offering him a sad smile. She must have talked to the doctor. "We found traces of chloroform in her system."

She handed him a page from Harry's file. He accepted with trembling hands as his breath became trapped in his throat. He wasn't exactly sure why _relief_ was washing over him. Maybe he was that desperate for this to not be Harry's fault.

"After we ran her tests we took another look at your friend's results," the nurse explained. Lestrade was the one who accepted Sherlock's file. "We found traces in his system as well."

Lestrade's eyes grew cold. Mycroft stood beside him glancing first at Harry's files and then Sherlock's. The nurse announced she would be down the hall, and the room fell silent for some time. He could see the wheels turning in Lestrade's eyes. John himself was too in shock, too confused to even _begin_ to search for answers.

"That's it then," Lestrade said quietly, at last. "This is an official police investigation."

"Actually-" Mycroft began, reaching for Sherlock's file.

Lestrade snatched it away, like a child protecting his toys.

"No!" The D.I. snapped. "I will not have the government intruding on something as rudimentary as a drugs case."

"This is a kidnapping!" Mycroft shot. "My brother's kidnapping! His sister-"

John tried to speak up, warning him to not involve Harry in his games, when Lestrade protested:

"We don't know what happened!" Lestrade said. He took a step toward Mycroft, not intimidated by the elder Holme's dark, looming, eyes. "Who is Sherlock going to trust? He's the key to this. Tell me, who's he going to talk to?"

Mycroft drew in a few deep breaths, as though battling with his own mind. Then, in unison, both men turn to John. John pointed at himself, stunned.

"_Me?"_

Both men nodded.

"My brother trusts you with his life," Mycroft said. "I think Sherlock genuinely doesn't remember what happened. And we have to consider, if it happened to both of our siblings, it could happen to someone else."

"I agree," Lestrade stated. John glared at him, and the D.I.'s eyes narrowed, warning him not to interfere. "John, it's fine if you're angry. No one's going to blame you for that. But both of them went through something this week, and we have no idea what."

"Not to mention, Sherlock's friend is still missing," Mycroft added.

"Sherlock's _friend_ got him into this!" John pointed out. "Sherlock's _friend _is a drug dealer, remember? Someone he pissed off probably recognized him and thought Sherlock was in on it! There, case closed!"

"And your sister?" Lestrade asked.

Once again John stopped breathing. His eyes carefully trailed toward Harry. He forced himself to stare at her, to take in the stark white skin and mess of wires and tubes.

"You've got to take lead on this, John," Mycroft said. "I know it's asking a lot, at a time like this-"

"It bloody well is," John muttered.

"But there's too much history here, between me and my brother," Mycroft continued. "Sherlock trusts Lestrade well enough, but with you he _cares_."

Closing his eyes, John fell back into the chair. He lowered his head in his hands. Exhaustion shook him to the bone.

"What do I have to do?" He finally said, looking up.

Mycroft paced the room, every ounce of emotion suddenly wiped from his face.

"Once Sherlock is well enough, offer to help him solve the case," Mycroft said.

"'Once Sherlock is _well enough_?'" John shot. "Do you have any idea what detox is going to be like for him this time? Do you have any idea how painful this is going to be for him? Not to mention the fact that he can't remember anything will drive him insane!"

"You'll need to watch him closely," Mycroft agreed.

"I'm not his babysitter!" John exclaimed.

"No, you're supposed to be his friend!" Lestrade snapped.

John looked at him in surprise. Rarely did Lestrade lash out at _him_.

"I'm trying to be!" John insisted. "Look, I'm just as worried about Sherlock as you two- trust me. But I'll be damned if I put his life or my life at risk to save some drug dealer and fight off a drug lord!"

Lestrade's eyes fell to the ground for a moment. A sea of memories seemed to pass before him, and somehow it made John regret what he said. He knew he didn't know the full story of what was going on.

"John, as selfish as it may sound this may be our best chance of taking down one of London's most dangerous drug lords," Lestrade said, speaking quietly. "If Boone is involved- if there's any chance St. Claire may be involved…we've got to get these men off the streets."

"John," Mycroft muttered, echoing Lestrade's desperation. "These are the men responsible for Sherlock's battle with drugs. These men are the reason there are drugs bust in your flat every few weeks. These men are the reason my brother ended up on the streets for so long. If these men are still out there, Sherlock's life could be at risk. Even your sister's could be. We don't know what happened."

His wished they would stop making so much sense. If he agreed, he knew how horrible and terrible the news few days- maybe even weeks would be. But if he refused, both men would be right. And the consequences…he couldn't be responsible for those.

"Fine," John whispered. He looked from the D.I. to Sherlock's brother. Drawing in a deep breath, he finished: "We'll do it. Me and Sherlock. We'll end this."

* * *

Author's Notes: Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!


	5. Kate

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, but as your reward for waiting here's a bonus chapter! Two chapters in one!

* * *

"I still think you should be in the hospital."

Sherlock let out a groan as he threw his coat onto the floor. Staring after him incredulously, John picked it up and placed it on a chair.

"I was held in that miserable place for nearly twelve hours!" Sherlock snapped. "We're losing time!"

His flatmate made to sit down at the table where John's laptop was. Instead he fell unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he rushed to help his friend. "Christ, you can't even stand straight!"

"Probably because I can't see straight," Sherlock muttered.

John looked down at him in horror, but Sherlock only grinned.

"So gullible, Dr. Watson."

John smacked him in the back of the head. Roughly, he picked him up and threw him into the chair. Sherlock only laughed as he turned the computer on.

Closing his eyes, John had to remind himself that this really wasn't the time to lash out at him.

"The only reason you're able to even talk right now is because of the meds the doctors were able to give you," John said. "What about when those wear off? What about the withdrawal, Sherlock? What about the fact that you _can't remember what happened to you_?!"

Sherlock stopped booting up the computer and looked up, speechless for a moment. John held his breath as he realized exactly what he just said.

"I know that," Sherlock said quietly. Now he was the one trying to not lose control. "Don't you think that I know that? Someone could have killed me tonight, and I can't even remember who it was. My friend is still missing, and I can't even remember the lead I had."

"Your friend is responsible for your drug addiction!" John exclaimed.

"Don't pretend like you know me!"

John threw his hands up in frustration

"It's like I'm living with a teenager!"

"John!" John fell silent. Sherlock stared intently into the space in front of him. He almost looked too shaken to continue, and he sounded uncharacteristically weak when he did. "I'm not going to make excuses for who I was back then, and I'm not going to pretend that Boone is a saint. But he is a human being, and he has tried to change. Life on the streets…it's hard to escape, even when you've found a nice flat and decent friends. I was lucky enough to have people who cared about me. Ever since then I've regretted not going back for him."

If he ignored the "_decent_ friends" detail, he realized Sherlock just gave him a compliment. He was stunned to realize that Sherlock was being honest and, well, showing some emotion.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said quietly, though he wasn't entirely sure why he was apologizing. For the first time since leaving the hospital, Sherlock lifted his head and looked him in the eye. "I wish you had come to me about this. We could have worked together."

"It's too dangerous," Sherlock said, "the only reason I survived this is because I naturally have a high tolerance for drugs. If it was you…"

He trailed off, and John didn't push to find out how that sentence would end. He also didn't point out that Sherlock's high tolerance of drugs was thanks to an addiction.

"I don't expect you to get involved with this," Sherlock continued, "it's risky, it's dangerous. You have no idea…"

"My best friend was in the hospital tonight because someone tried to force him into a drug overdose," John said quietly. "And my sister's in a coma because of one. Don't tell me what I don't understand."

John slipped into a chair across from Sherlock, forcing his flatmate to face him.

"I understand where you're coming from, trust me," John said, "and I want to help you, I do. But I also don't want to push you too far."

"You won't," Sherlock stated dryly, "you're _not_ responsible for me."

John closed his eyes again. Based on his conversation with Mycroft and Lestrade, Sherlock's words would seem anything but true. For a moment Sherlock fell silent, staring at the computer as he began to type. From the outside, this would have looked like just another evening in their flat.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?" When Sherlock didn't reply, he drew in a deep breath, and said: "Why do you consider him a friend? He's a drug dealer. A dangerous one, according to Mycroft."

An anger so deep, so personal, crossed Sherlock's face that John was sorry he ever dared to speak up.

"According to Mycroft, all drug dealers are the same," Sherlock said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "but if that were true, I'd be in that same category. A monster. A danger to society." His eyes flickered toward him. "Do you think I'm a danger, John?"

John's breathing was shallow and labored as he tried to wrap his mind around what Sherlock was saying.

"You were a drug dealer?"

He felt like he might be sick. Maybe _that's_ why Lestrade's drug busts were so thorough. Why Mycroft kept such a close eye on him. Why he seemed to make enemies so easily.

"For a short time," Sherlock admitted. "Drug dealer's a bit extreme. I prefer messenger. It was more for the connections than the money."

"Keep your friends close-" John began.

"And your enemies closer," Sherlock finished.

"Sherlock, that's a terrible idea."

His flatmate simply shrugged.

"I'm not sure I could have survived on the streets otherwise," Sherlock said.

John shook his head, still unable to wrap his mind around any of this.

"Think of the danger you were putting yourself in!" John exclaimed.

"I wasn't thinking at the time," Sherlock said.

"And you clearly weren't thinking when you voluntarily went with Boone on that drug deal."

"You wouldn't understand!"

"You keep saying that!" John cried. They both glared at each other. "Make me understand."

Sherlock studied him, long and hard, determining if he was serious. The tension between them was awful. It made him feel uncomfortable, as though they suddenly weren't on the terms they used to be on.

"What do you need?" John said, much more calmly now.

Across from him, Sherlock shut the laptop and began to get to his feet. John was there to help him before he could begin to stumble.

"I need to retrace my steps," Sherlock said. "I looked for clues, at Boone's place. When I was in that hotel I remembered something. Made some kind of connection. If I go back to Boone's, maybe something will click."

Before he had time to reply, Sherlock tried to take a step forward- and fell. John caught him before he hit the ground.

"I really don't think you're up for this," John protested.

"John-" Sherlock grunted as he tried to catch his breath. "Every second that we're sitting in this flat, someone's out there, in danger. I don't know if he's hurt, or if he's being drugged, maybe worse than I am."

"You seem to show a lot of compassion for someone who's one of the current most wanted drug dealer's in London."

Sherlock stared at him, with that look that told John he somehow knew _exactly_ what was going on. John swallowed nervously and looked away.

"Mycroft isn't paying you by the hour, is he?"

"What?" John replied, turning pale. "No!"

Sherlock shook his head, exaggerating his disappointment.

"Forgive me, John, if I'm being too _compassionate_," Sherlock shot, "but maybe if you'd use your own brain for once, you'd see the world in something other than black and white."

John hesitated before replying. He knew Mycroft would be following him every step of the way, and knowing that Sherlock was aware of this would only make things more unpleasant.

He also knew he had no choice but to agree.

"Where do we need to go?" He asked.

Sherlock looked him up and down.

"Change clothes," Sherlock instructed.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" John shot.

"For starters, you've been wearing the same clothes for almost twenty-four hours," Sherlock said, "and seriously? Cashmere jumper from last Christmas. Fitted dress slacks and gold watch? It's like you're asking to be mugged. By the way-"

Reaching into his pockets, Sherlock withdrew a wallet- _his_ wallet- and threw it at him.

"Hey!" John cried, in shock.

He never even realized it was missing. And he had been so careful…

"Watch your pockets!" Sherlock replied. "Come on, then."

John grabbed his arm before he could fall again, and sighed.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

He kept Sherlock's warning about his wallet in mind as they wondered through the dark north London alley. The hidden path, long and narrow, snaked between a rundown flat and a cigar shop. The entire street reeked. More than one homeless person was sprawled out against shop walls; John couldn't help but to notice Sherlock avoided the eyes of every single one of them.

"Sherlock…" John began. He inched closer to his friend. "What are we doing here?"

At last Sherlock stopped at the back door of the flat building. John wasn't even sure the place was still up and running. The more he studied the building, the more it looked like the inside had long since been phased out into another abandoned place. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pushed the door open.

They were greeted by a dark stairway. Sherlock didn't explain as he led him up two flights, to a flat above the Chinese food shop downstairs.

"Are you telling me someone lives here?" John whispered.

Sherlock didn't answer. He hesitated before pushing open another door. They both stood, frozen, in the entryway to a small, dark, flat. The corner was lit by the light of the moon. A few blankets made up a makeshift bed. A few spare items of clothing littered the floor around it. A single bag of groceries sat in the corner. And a young girl was perched in a windowsill, gazing over the streets below.

"Kate," Sherlock breathed quietly.

John looked up at him, stunned. The girl's head snapped toward them. Now that John saw her face, he realized she couldn't be more than sixteen years old. She carefully stepped away from the windowsill. After taking a few cautious steps toward Sherlock, she broke into a run…and through her arms around him.

Sherlock looked petrified for a moment, with this teenager in his arms, but then he relaxed, and hugged her back.

"Sherlock," the girl said. She sounded so weak- John realized she must have been crying. "Any news on my dad?"

Remaining silent, Sherlock simply shook his head.

"Sherlock?" John asked, already at loss for words.

Sherlock looked at him over the girl's shoulder, warning him not to interfere.

"You're alright," Sherlock stated.

He seemed genuinely relieved when she nodded, despite the tear she wiped away.

"Of course," she replied, "you told me to stay here."

"It's good you did."

Sherlock paled, obviously disturbed by a hundred "what ifs" that could have been that night. At last the two broke a part. The girl sniffled as she wrapped her arms around herself.

Then her eyes found John, and he felt more uncomfortable than ever as she tried to figure him out.

"Is this your new boyfriend?" Kate asked.

John choked as his cheeks immediately turned red.

Boyfriend?

_New?!_

If possible, Sherlock looked even more embarrassed than he did. And Sherlock never looked embarrassed.

"No, he's just a flatmate," Sherlock said.

"Oh." The girl looked crestfallen. "You have a flat."

"Yeah," Sherlock replied quietly.

There was an awkward moment of silence between them. John couldn't really be sure if he had a role here, other than being there for whenever Sherlock fell. Sherlock looked too shaken by being there to make sense of it all. As his eyes roamed the flat, John was startled to see that the usual look of familiarity was absent. He looked at loss for answers.

It certainly wasn't a good feeling.

"I was here earlier, looking around," Sherlock said.

It sounded more like he was asking her this, and Kate recognized this.

"Yeah, you were talking with mum," Kate said. "Are you okay?"

John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, hoping to pull him back to reality.

"He's just had a rough night," John said.

The girl smirked- smirked, and John realized what she must be thinking. His hand shot back to his side, and he took a subconscious step away.

"You've been high," Kate said. Suddenly she was just inches from Sherlock's face, studying his eyes. "I can tell, I know the signs."

Sherlock swallowed nervously, his eyes dashed away.

"I've had a bit of memory loss," Sherlock admitted. "I was hoping you could remind me what we talked about.

Kate shrugged.

"You talked to mum a bit, calmed her down. Told her you'd go after dad. Told her you were heading down to Swandam-

_Shit, she knows the place by name?_

John still couldn't believe he was standing her listening to a drug dealer's daughter. Though she looked innocent enough, standing in torn denim trousers and a blue jumper that was far too light for this weather, John wasn't an idiot. The place reeked of smoke; the taste of alcohol melted into the air.

"You told her you thought dad might be there," the girl continued, "you promised her you'd bring him back."

Sherlock's eyes diverted to the floor as he took this in. It was almost hard to comprehend, considering the lack of grace Sherlock usually had in handling victims. When Sherlock never answered, and John realized the girl was looking to them for support, he spoke up:

"What time was that?"

Kate's studied him, skeptical. Clearly she didn't trust him. Nevertheless, she replied quietly:

"Sunday evening…around seven?" She guessed.

John nodded, appreciative.

"Thanks," he said, and turned to his flatmate. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at the girl, hesitant. At last, he pulled John by the arm to lead him off to the side.

"What?" He demanded.

"I can't just leave her," Sherlock whispered. John's eyes narrowed. He knew exactly where this was going. "It's too dangerous for her. John…I know you're hesitant to believe me, but she's just a kid."

John stayed quiet for a moment, trying to wrap his mind all of this. He stole a glance toward Kate, who stood shivering, watching them intently.

"You care about her?" John said softly.

Sherlock nodded.

"She's innocent in this," Sherlock said. His voice dropped to a whisper that was almost inaudible. "Her parents haven't always been the best, but they're all she has. I know deep down, Boone cares about her."

"Deep down?" John repeated.

He glanced back toward the girl, and suddenly he saw someone completely different. She wasn't just a drug dealer's daughter, but the daughter of parents who didn't bother to keep her best intentions at heart. Parents that brought her into their world, who weren't keeping her safe.

"Like I said, Boone's not a saint," Sherlock offered. "He likes to keep his family secret, partly for their protection…and partly because he's ashamed of them."

John's eyes widened as he watched Kate turn toward the window, her arms wrapped around herself as she shivered.

"There are only four people in the world that know he has a daughter, and two of them are now standing in this room," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing in on John. Asking him for his trust. "You've got to swear to me this doesn't get to Mycroft. You've also have got to promise me you'll help keep her safe."

He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to be a part of any of this. This was Sherlock's world, and he already felt like he didn't belong. This wasn't right.

But he still nodded.

What other choice did he have?

"Explain it all to me again?" John asked.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. His eyes gleamed with appreciation.

"Former drug dealer tries to get clean while keeping his family hidden on the streets of London. He gets desperate for money, decides to make one last deal. He goes completely off the radar, leaving his wife and kid a mess. Upset, she comes to me for help. I'm able to track him down at his old stomping grounds, but he's already too far into this. Boone has struck up a new deal with St. Claire: he's his new associate. I pretend like I want in on the gig to get close to him, but when we meet the client…_something_ happened."

John nodded. Though the bits and pieces were slowly coming together, he still couldn't comprehend the fact that _Sherlock_ was caught up in all of this.

"By the way," John muttered through gritted teeth. He pulled Sherlock toward him and forced him to look him in the eye. "_New_ boyfriend?"

It was the closest to embarrassed he'd ever seen Sherlock look. His flatmate's hands sank deep into his coat pockets; his eyes darted in every direction except toward him.

"Different life, different me," Sherlock replied softly. At last he looked John in the eye again. "Are you still in on this?"

_No._ He very much wanted out of this. But as he watched the young girl sit on the floor, wrapped in clothes that were far too thin, he couldn't help but to feel attached to this case already.

"Yeah," he nodded, "I'm still in. Where to next?"

* * *

Author's Note: Keep in mind that like the modern day stories in the show, this one will differ from the original mystery a bit. I know what I'm doing. Promise. Do you believe me?


	6. Taken

Author's Note: I'm SO sorry for the wait! Seriously, I feel terrible. I was on vacation for awhile, and my hotel didn't have good wi-fi so I could never sign on. Then I've had a ton of work crap to deal with. Now I FINALLY got a chance to put up a new chapter. Let me know what you think!

* * *

Back at Baker Street, John watched as Sherlock sat with Kate on the sofa. They were speaking in soft voices. The way Sherlock gazed at her was beyond anything John could comprehend. It was almost as though he _cared_. All he could do was stand there, mouth agape. He never even witnessed Sherlock being this sincere to victims, let alone to children.

When Sherlock reached out, holding a comforting hand to Kate's cheek, it became too much.

"Sherlock?" He asked, simply to remind him someone else was in the room.

Sherlock looked over at him and nodded. Kate offered him a small smile and let him go. Once Sherlock pulled him aside and out of Kate's earshot, he spoke up:

"What was that all about?"

Eyes dancing around the room, Sherlock nodded, clearly uncomfortable. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat as he replied.

"She was talking to me about the last time she saw her father. Apparently she told me the story before, but I just…" he swallowed as he trailed off. His eyes darted away once again: ashamed. "Anyway, he was very on edge. He was high. He was shouting about how they needed to get out of London, and then he just…broke down. He said he was going to turn his life around, but apparently he said that a lot. Her mum was really shaken by it all. After that, Kate never saw him again."

Their eyes met, and John knew his flatmate was pleading for him to understand. But he just couldn't comprehend it all.

"Look, Sherlock, I respect that you want to help your friend. Honestly, that just speaks volumes, but I just don't understand. I need to know-"

"Fine, John!" Sherlock snapped. "If it bothers you that much, it was one guy-"

"Jesus!" John exclaimed, running a hand over his face. That was an image he would never be able to erase. "No, that's not what's bothering me! But yeah, you're going to have to explain this. And not just in riddles."

"John-" Sherlock's hands fell on his shoulder. John looked from one to another, puzzled. Clearly the drugs still hadn't fully worn off. "I'm asking you, please. Step out of the box. Or I'll leave you behind."

John blinked.

"Are you threatening me?"

Sherlock simply grinned, and patted a hand on his shoulder.

"If there's one thing I know, Dr. Watson, it's the streets of London," Sherlock continued. He waltzed around the kitchen as he ignored John. "Every street has a price. What do you know about the London drug world?"

He just stared. Was he really hearing this?

"Let me think…" John began sarcastically. "Oh yes, that would be _nothing_."

"I know I can trust Boone, because where he's staying is on one of the cheaper streets," Sherlock continued. "You have your fair share of homeless people, but it's completely harmless."

"It didn't look harmless…"

Sherlock waved the comment away with his hand.

"Stayed there for eight months when I was twenty-one."

_Holy hell!_

"It's child's play," Sherlock went on, ignoring him still. Instead, he pointed to Kate. "He was sincerely fighting to keep his family safe. He was staying there, personally, which is a real clue. Do you know how dangerous it is for a drug lord to just waltz around London?"

_Probably not as dangerous as it is for his clients,_ he couldn't help but to think.

"So Boone must have gotten around quite a bit for awhile," Sherlock said. "People knew who he was. So why did this person at Swandam Lane act so shocked to see him?"

Good point.

John shrugged.

"Maybe he was dealing out of a different place for awhile," he suggested. "They could have been surprised to see him back."

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"No," he replied. "No, you're not getting this at all."

With a dramatic sigh, he threw his arms in the air.

"That's because _I'm not a London drug dealer_!"

They glared at each other. He wasn't sure he had ever seen Sherlock so angry at him, but he couldn't be sure that wasn't simply the lingering effect of the drugs. His flatmate's eyes were still bloodshot, yet dark and hollow at the same time. _Judgmental_, he realized. And that was never a look he saw in Sherlock.

"Someone recognized him," Sherlock continued quietly, "because there's more to Boone than meets the eye. He went to university, got a degree, started a career in the business world, made enemies just like everyone else- _oh!_"

John shuddered; as always, the "oh" was far too full of excitement for his liking. Sherlock slapped his hands together. His eyes narrowed, and John knew he had lost him.

"Right," John said. "While you figure that out, how about some tea? Or food. I'm starving. Kate?"

He swallowed nervously as he addressed the young girl, who ultimately ignored him.

"She doesn't trust you," Sherlock said, without changing his persona.

With another deep sigh, John closed his eyes. He was determined not to lose it, simply because that's what Sherlock would want.

"Fine," he mumbled. "I'm going to get food. If anyone wants any of it when I get back, be my guest. If not…starve. What do I know?"

He made a scene of storming out and slamming the front door, but he knew Sherlock didn't notice. The cool night air allowed him a chance to breathe. He took a moment to simply lean against the door and close his eyes.

"What am I getting myself into?" He asked himself quietly.

At last he opened his eyes and looked around. He knew he couldn't go far. Not with the state Sherlock was in, and not with the girl in their flat. Opting for the Indian restaurant the next block over, John started walking. The rumbling of his stomach and the setting sunset reminded him of how long a day it had been, but he knew it was nowhere near over.

John took out his mobile to phone the hospital and check on Harry, but as soon as the device was out of his pocket someone swiped it away. He gasped as someone suddenly jerked him to the side. He fought to scream as the strong stench of chloroform overwhelmed him. All he could hear was the frantic pacing of his own breathing as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and the world went black.


	7. The Man In the Blue Suit

Author's Note: Thank you so much for the kind reviews! I felt so badly about the delay in updating that I decided to put up this chapter early.  
Let me know what you think!

Warning: Here there be violence. And forced drug use.

* * *

His chest heaved up and down heavily as he tried to control his breathing. John waited as long as he could to open his eyes, terrified of the situation he would find himself in. Tight bonds restrained his hands behind his back. He could feel the cold medal of a chair brush against his skin as he tried to move.

At last, John let out a half-sigh, half-sob and opened his eyes.

Darkness.

Bound and bagged.

"Ah, you're awake," a thick northern accent announced.

The bag flew off him. John's eyes dashed around in panic, trying to take in everywhere about where he was. It looked like he was in the back of an abandoned shop. An old cash register and a litter of receipt tape cluttered the floor. The back room was small, with no windows, but he could hear the sound of street traffic from nearby. He couldn't have been taken far from Baker Street.

His breath hitched as he met eyes with his kidnapper. The man as surprising young, around his age, but he was tall and well, _handsome_. His blonde hair and blue eyes went well with his navy suit. Designer, he realized. Nothing that John could dream of affording himself. The more he studied the man, from the polished features of his face to the shine of his shoes, John realized how much the man reminded him of Mycroft Holmes.

"I have one very simple question for you," the northerner continued. "Where is the girl?"

Kate.

_Shit._

_Why did I get myself involved in this?_

"I don't know what you're talking about," John rasped.

He braced himself, holding his breath as the fist crashed down on his cheek. Shaking his head, he lazily raised his eyes as he shot:

"Look mate, I was in Afghanistan. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than that to scare me."

The northerner froze, and for a moment John thought he got to him. Then the man over to a stand, where John caught his first glimpse of the instruments waiting for him. A knife, a scalpel, and a needle.

"Which of these shall I start with?" The man teased.

"We should start with your name," John replied, trying his best to stay calm even though his heart raced in panic. His muscles tensed when the man picked up the knife. "If you're going to interrupt a perfectly good evening then you can at least offer up your name."

The man smirked, and part of him was hopeful he had won some respect. But the other part knew that was only wishful thinking.

"You were a soldier, then?" The northern asked, twirling the knife in his hands.

For a moment John only breathed in and out, hesitant to answer.

He wasn't given a chance.

"But you're out of the war, now," his captor continued. "Were you ever tortured?"

John winced, wishing he could say something about how bluntly offensive this guy was being. Instead, he realized- _this guy knows nothing about me_.

"How about I drop the act?" The man said. "I'll tell you who I am. I am an old friend of Sherlock Holmes. You are clearly his new friend."

"New…_friend_?" John repeated, grimacing.

His puzzlement was met with a grin.

_Old friend, _he thought_, as in…_old friend_?_

"Sherlock Holmes owes me something. He has a debt to repay. I want to send him a message."

With two quick strides his captor stepped toward him, withdrawing the knife. John shivered as his shirt was lifted slightly and the knife came down on his skin. He forced himself to look away as an incision was made.

"His negligence is putting my life at risk," his captor said, his voice nearly a whisper. His face just inches from John's. He winced in pain. Holding his breath, he shut his eyes tightly, fighting to block it all out. "Sherlock Holmes has a debt to repay me, and he better repay it soon. Or it will be his neck that's on the line."

At last the knife was taken away. John let out a shaky sigh as the air around him seemed to lighten. Dizziness took over; white spots danced before his eyes. His captor patted his cheek with his hand.

"Got it?" He asked.

John nodded. He was trembling all over. The kidnapper walked back over to the stand; John felt like he was going to be sick as his hand hovered over the scalpel. A slick grin crossed the man's face as he looked toward John.

"I'll save that for next time," he said, "if we have to have a next time."

Instead his hand fell on the needle. He revealed a vile from his pocket and began injecting something into the needle. John fought to get away this time, ignoring how numb and limp he felt.

"Sherlock is a strange man, isn't he?" His captor said. "You must be so puzzled by him. It's time you understand a bit more about his world."

John drew in a sharp breath as the needle lingered just over his skin. His eyes widened, but as much as he wanted to look away he found himself desperate to watch as the substance was injected into his system. When the needle was withdrawn he didn't feel any different at first.

"I want you to walk out of here and go back home," the northerner said. "Go back home and tell Sherlock what I said."

He couldn't reply. Goosebumps stood out on his pale skin. An angry mark was forming at the injection sight.

John vaguely became aware that his hands were being untied. The world around him seemed so…foggy. He blinked, wondering when everything changed.

"He's a strange man, your friend," the captor said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two pills, both of which he swallowed. "Tell him I said hi."

With that the man rushed out, leaving John alone and confused. Blinking, he tried to gain sense of his bearings. He wanted to stand, but he knew his legs were far too numb for that. Instead he reached into his pocket for his-

_Damn._

-mobile that fell on the ground earlier. Letting out a deep sigh John looked around, wondering how he was supposed to get out of here in this state. He knew he wasn't physically wasn't too hurt. In fact, he could hardly feel the pain from the knife wound any longer. Consciously, he grasped his chest with his hands. Somehow he retained knowledge that he was bleeding without actually feeling anything.

In fact, he felt nothing. He felt…good.

"He drugged me," John mumbled to an empty room.

He stumbled toward the doorway, hoping that it wouldn't be too hard to find Baker Street from here. When he pushed open the door he was surprised that it led right onto the street, and when he saw where he was John grinned.

Right across from the Indiana restaurant he originally intended to go to.

* * *

As he stumbled into the flat Sherlock stared at him, but John didn't explain. He shoved the food in his flatmate's hands. Kate looked up at him from the sofa, studying him. He ignored them all.

"I'm going into work," he announced.

"You've been gone for an _hour_," Sherlock stated, sounding more puzzled than angry.

"I've got to get to the surgery," John went on, grabbing the coat he usually wore to work.

He fumbled with the sleeves as he put it on. The knife wound went unnoticed as he turned his back to the two people staring wide-eyed at him.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

"Alright?" John said. "I'm bloody terrific, but I'll be fired if-"

Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"You don't work there anymore."

They stared at each other. John blinked.

"Right," John replied. "Right, of course I don't. I just felt like it would be a good night, you know? I'm just feeling lots of…energy. You know, the stuff I don't normally feel when I'm around you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't question him. John was certainly grateful he chose the coat, as it could hide both the injection mark and the blood. The last thing he needed was Sherlock asking questions.

"You're very pale," Sherlock said.

"I'm very hungry!"

He grabbed the food from Sherlock, despite the fact he just shoved it toward him. He flopped down at the table and took out a tray, digging in without saying a word.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. "What did you get me?"

John kept eating as he replied:

"I didn't get you anything."

Letting out a dramatic sigh, Sherlock threw his hands in the air.

"We have a teenaged girl in the house, John!" He exclaimed. "I'm pretty sure we have to feed her!"

John shrugged.

"You brought her home."

He meant to pop another bite of food in his mouth, but Sherlock swatted the fork away.

"Hey!" John cried.

Sherlock sat down next to him and studied him, his eyes narrowing darkly. John swallowed. _He knows._

"Heroin," Sherlock announced.

_Damn._

"Where did you get heroin?" Sherlock asked.

Shaking his head incredulously, John replied:

"Of course. I'm all drugged up on heroin, and clearly that must be my fault! It's always my fault with you!"

"John-"

"How long did it take you to notice I was gone for too long, Sherlock?" He asked. He let out a laugh. "Did you even consider calling the restaurant to see if I showed up?" Sherlock only stared at him, hurt. "Incredible."

He slammed his hand down on the table and pushed the food away.

"If you want the bloody food then eat it," he mumbled, "I'm going for a walk."

He attempted to stand, but he found himself crashing against the wall.

"John!" Sherlock cried.

Even Kate jumped up from where she sat. Sherlock reached toward him to help him up, but John swiped his hand away.

"Sherlock," he moaned, leaning his head against the wall.

He could feel the bile building inside him even before it hit his throat. A sickening, sour taste filled his mouth as he vomited all over the floor. Eyes closed, he turned away. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

"Hospital," Sherlock announced.

"No!" John rasped. "Fine."

"Someone drugged you," Sherlock said, "I know you didn't do this."

"_Fine_," he insisted. "I'm-"

He winced as a gentle hand rest against his chest. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring straight at him.

"You're bleeding," Sherlock whispered.

Carefully, he lifted John's shirt to reveal the bloodied knife wound. His flatmate's eyes widened.

"It's nothing-"

"Who did this to you?" Sherlock demanded. "John, tell me!"

John closed his eyes. Suddenly it was too painful to listen to the sound of his voice. He realized the clash of shock and heroin use must be too much for him to handle. He felt darkness try to take over, and he fought it off the best he could.

"You owe him," John muttered, "a debt."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows but didn't reply.

"Kate, call for an ambulance."

"No," John whispered, "I'm okay."

"Sherlock?" Kate asked carefully. She sounded so scared.

"Okay," he mumbled once more.

He opened his mouth to speak but only vomit came out. Sherlock jumped away just in time.

"Drugs really don't mix with you," Sherlock noted.

John's heavy, bloodshot, eyes gazed up at him, asking _really?! _Sighing, Sherlock ran his hands over his face.

"I can handle this," Sherlock announced.

A pit formed in his stomach. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure of entrusting his life with Sherlock. Their eyes met, and Sherlock seemed to understand. So instead, his flatmate offered:

"I'm calling Lestrade."


	8. The Third Assault

Author's Note: This is where things start to get really confusing...I mean, interesting! Read closely! What you see might not necessarily be the truth!

* * *

John closed his eyes, moaning as a warm hand towel dragged across his forehead. Caked in sweat and breathing slowly, he was sunken into the sofa on Baker Street. Lestrade sat beside him, examining him, his face expressionless- but he was unafraid to hide his anger.

"Look at you two," Lestrade said as he felt John's forehead. "I should lock you both in a bloody jail cell just to keep you out of danger. At least you don't have a fever, John."

"Of course he doesn't have a fever," Sherlock mumbled. John turned weakly to his flatmate, who had been pacing the room for the last half hour as Lestrade helped him recover.

Lestrade's eyes shot toward Sherlock, and John swallowed, nervously. He knew drugs were a touchy subject between the two, and he felt guilty for having to make this even worse. Sherlock still didn't look too good himself: he was still a shade too pale, he was twitching now, and his hands kept scratching at the marks on his arm.

"Sometimes I really wonder why I get myself into these things," Lestrade sighed, turned back to John. "You're fine, though I'm sure you've been able to access this already. Was it only the drugs?"

As he said this his stomach burned, reminding him of the untreated wound on his ribs. The coat wrapped around him, supposedly for the shivers, hid the wound from everyone else. He didn't want them to panic over something he could stitch up himself, as soon as he had a moment alone. But, naturally, everyone was freaking out way too much.

With a weak nod, John lied:

"Yeah."

His throat felt far too raw, and Lestrade looked hesitant to believe him.

_He's a better detective than Sherlock gives him credit for._

Lestrade let out another sigh as he rubbed his eyes; John remembered that it had been a long day for him as well.

"You do realize you'll have to come in for an official statement," he said, "and it would be helpful to meet with a sketch artist." John nodded. "It would probably be best to wait until the effects wear off. The team will have a field day if they see you two come in there all drugged up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"He doesn't need to meet with a sketch artist," Sherlock shot. "Your team is useless. _We're_ being useless, just sitting here."

"Sorry that I'm too busy recovering from a kidnapping." John snapped. They glared at each other. "But you're right. Sherlock knows these people better than any of us."

"No!" Lestrade exclaimed, standing up. "Can you two not take a hint? You're targets! You're not going to work this case."

"Lestrade!" They both shouted at the same time.

As adrenaline pumped through him, he suddenly felt better. It was one of those moments where he and Sherlock's brains seemed to be completely in sync.

"Someone kidnapped me, someone kidnapped _him_, and you're telling us not to work this case?" John said. "We can't just stand down. We can't just let the police take over, they'll get suspicious!"

"For once, John is right," the other two stared at Sherlock, shocked. "_I_ have a debt to pay. These threats were made about _me_. I'm not going to hide like a coward!"

Lestrade took a step closer to Sherlock; John had never seen him look so serious in his life.

"Look at me, Sherlock," his flatmate refused to. "Listen to me. I'm not saying this as a detective. I'm not saying this because the bloody government is breathing down my neck. I'm saying this as the guy who helped pulled you out of this mess in the first place: stay out. For god's sake, Sherlock, just stay out of it. You almost _died_. This doesn't have to be your problem."

At last Sherlock's eyes trailed to Lestrade, and just at seeing the darkness in them, John tensed. He had never seen Lestrade sound so angry, and he had never seen Sherlock look so hurt.

"This is about me," Sherlock growled, in almost a _warning_ tone. He glanced to John; he was stunned to see him look almost apologetic. "You have no idea how much this is about me."

With that he swirled around, fleeing out the door. Lestrade threw his hands in the air and turned to John.

"Great, where has he gone off to now?!" Lestrade cried.

Pushing the blanket covering him aside, John jumped up, ignoring the numbness that tried to prevent movement.

"John!" Lestrade called after him.

He waved an arm toward Lestrade, ignoring him as he slammed the door behind him. He wasn't surprised to find Sherlock no further than the windowsill of the café beside them, a cigarette already lighted and in hand.

_Great._

John approached him carefully. Somehow, he hadn't considered how dark and cold it would be outside; he wrapped the jacket around him tightly for warmth.

"You okay?" John asked.

Sherlock threw a glance his way. Ashamed, John realized.

"Yeah," he muttered, flicking the cigarette toward the ground, "sorry about that."

John shook his head. As his eyes roamed around Baker Street he was reminded again how unbelievably exhausted he was. He could hardly keep his eyelids open; he would have to rely on adreneline tonight.

"Nothing to be sorry for," John said. "Lestrade was being an ass."

Sherlock chuckled, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"He wasn't, though," Sherlock said. John stared at him, stunned to hear him sound so sincere. "He's given me a lot of second chances. He's worried, as he should be. John…if you decide to continue to help me with this, you have to understand that no one is safe in this case. Not even the police."

A pit fell in John's stomach. Even though he knew it was stupid, it was always a nice fallback knowing that Lestrade's team was behind them. He knew Sherlock had no faith in them, but as a believer of doing things by the book, he actually liked having the police on their side. Turning them away was just asking for it.

Sherlock glanced to John. He squirmed as his friend studied him, taking in the effects of the heroin.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

His flatmate's breath hitched, and John realized that Sherlock truly felt guilty about his kidnapping.

"Yeah, yeah," John lied, wishing he had the strength to tell the truth.

He wasn't alright. He was completely freaked out over all this. He didn't want anything to do with an underground drug world. All he wanted was to be in the hospital, looking after his sister. All he wanted was to wake up and start the week over. Running a hand over his face, he wiped away some of the sweat that still lingered there.

"I don't know how you can stomach this drug stuff," John said, wrapping his arms around his stomach. Aside from the numbness, a sickening sour feeling shook him to the bone.

Sherlock stared at him.

"I don't," he admitted. "I didn't do heroin."

Their eyes met, each of them equally as confused.

"Then what was this all about?" John said. "The guy who kidnapped me, he acted like it was all some sort of…payback."

"Tell me exactly what happened again."

John sighed heavily; he had been through this story one too many time already.

"He said he was an old friend of yours, and that I must be your new friend," John explained. "He said that I must be so confused about the way you are and said it was time I get a taste of your world. He also asked me about Afghanistan, asked me if I had ever been tortured." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his silent way of asking for more. John swallowed, feeling even sicker. It wasn't something he wanted to go into right now. "He acted like he might…but instead he reached for the syringe. It was almost like he realized he was running out of time. That's when he made the threat about the debt."

Sherlock stared at the ground, his eyes vacant, contemplating.

"Do you remember anything else about him?" Sherlock challenged. "The way he talked, how he smelled, how he walked-"

"With a limp," John realized. Sherlock's eyes shot to him. "When he got out of there he had a slight limp. I…I just remembered that."

Something began brewing in Sherlock's eyes, but John couldn't read him. Instead of explaining, Sherlock let out a deep breath and then took another drag of his cigarette. John made to lean back against the window, feeling like he could use the support, but instead of comfort a shot of sharp pain ripped through him. With a groan he grasped his ribcage.

"John?" Sherlock asked, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Without asking permission, Sherlock carefully lifted John's shirt enough to see the bleeding tear. John hissed as Sherlock's fingers brushed against it.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head, suddenly feeling took weak again.

"It's not a big deal," he hissed.

"You're lying," Sherlock sighed. "Why lie over something as stupid as a cut?"

"Because it's a stupid cut!" John shot. "There are bigger things going on right now."

His shifted, his own hand tightening on the wound. Holding a hand to his face, he closed his eyes, determined to fight the tears that threaten to overwhelm him.

"Sorry," John mumbled, "it's just the exhaustion. I'm okay, I just…I haven't heard about Harry for a while and-"

"I'll get Mycroft to get us a real report."

John looked at him, surprised.

"Are you sure?" John said. "You don't have to deal with Mycroft for me."

Sherlock shrugged.

"With the kidnapping, I imagine you haven't checked in with him in quite some time," Sherlock threw him a cheeky grin, "might as well let him know I'm still alive."

John nodded, but with the real danger they had faced so far with this case he didn't find the comment too funny.

"Thanks," John said, "I appreciate it, really."

Sherlock studied him, examining the way he was clutching the wound.

"I'm not usually the one to say this, but maybe-"

"No hospital," John said. "I can stitch it up. We just need Lestrade out of the way. By the way, isn't he alone in there with Kate?"

"Shit."

"That might be the first time I've heard you swear," John commented as he chased after Sherlock.

They stopped short when they entered the flat and found Lestrade shouting into his phone.

"Did you run the DNA?" A pause. "Okay, okay, we'll be over there soon."

He glanced toward the two as they entered, uncertainty melted into the features of his face.

"Are you sure you two are up for investigating?" He asked.

The two nodded.

"Of course," they lied in unison.

"Well you're getting your way," Lestrade said. "We're heading back to Swandam Lane. There's been an assault in one of the rooms. Blood's been found on the windowsill."

"And the victim?" Sherlock asked, grabbing his coat. "Give me something I can work with!"

Lestrade hesitated.

"Missing," he admitted, "but there's a witness, a woman. Sherlock…she says she's Neville St. Claire's wife."

Sherlock stopped. His face turned even paler.

"St. Claire doesn't have a wife," Sherlock said. "Lestrade…he's not married. He's the opposite of a family man. He's-"

Lestrade held up a hand. Even John was wondering what the deal was with the uncharacteristic outburst. Sherlock just sounded so _desperate_. He looked so _scared_. And he wished he could understand why.

"I don't understand it any more than you do," Lestrade said. "We've been tracing Intel on St. Claire for years, and we never found anything more than the usual affair or two."

He let out a frustrated sigh as he head toward the door.

"This is giving me a serious headache," Lestrade muttered under his breath as he passed.

Sherlock made to follow him, and John realized that he was still forgetting the girl.

"Sherlock!" He called. Both men stopped and stared at him. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Sherlock looked around cluelessly and shrugged.

"What?" He asked.

John stared at him incredulously. Swallowing nervously, he thought of a lie quickly.

"Mrs. Hudson's walls," he said, waving his hands toward the wall which had once again been subject to Sherlock's boredom. "Remember how angry she was? She said clean up the mess by tonight or else."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed, amused.

"'Or else?'" He repeated. "That's a bit fierce for Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock met his eyes, clearly annoyed by the distraction, but when John nodded toward the bedroom Kate was hiding in, he understood. Clearing his throat, Sherlock announced:

"John's actually right," he said. "I'm afraid we've crossed the line with her one too many times. Plus look at John, he's in no state to go out."

John glared, but Sherlock just smirked. Lestrade shook his head, not amused.

"Fine," Lestrade said. "Have your quiet night in. The witness will probably be too in shock to make a proper statement anyway. I'll call you after the DNA tests come in. Rest up. I mean it."

With that Lestrade left, head hung low and feet dragging, displaying his exhaustion. Sherlock didn't waste any time rounding on John.

"Mrs. Hudson's walls?" He snapped. "How dare you use an innocent old woman to lie to the police!"

Rolling his eyes, John replied:

"Right, because it will be so much easier to explain to her why a teenage girl is hiding in your bedroom!"

Sherlock froze, actually _embarrassed_. For the first time in what felt like days, John laughed.

"Come on," he said, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We can get Mrs. Hudson to look after her. Give me a minute to wash up, and we can go after Lestrade."

"And the walls?" Sherlock said.

John shrugged, and offered:

"We didn't have the right coat of paint."


	9. Lily St Claire

Author's Note: I completely re-wrote the end of this chapter, so please take note if this even if you already read the old version. I realized there were a few flaws in planning this chapter so I tried to mend them best I could. Sorry for all of the confusion!

"When are you two going to actually stop staring and do something?"

John blinked and turned to his flatmate, who was staring at the teenager like she was from another species.

"Well, Sherlock, you were the one who brought a teenage girl home," John announced, "what exactly was your plan?"

Sherlock's stare trailed to him; he clearly had no clue what was going on. Sighing heavily, John gave in:

"Fine, I'll watch her. You go after Lestrade."

A grin spread across Sherlock's face and a hand clasped his shoulder.

"You're a good friend, John."

Before he could argue, Sherlock fled the flat, leaving him alone with a girl he barely knew. Crossing his arms, John admitted:

"He only says that when he wants something."

This earned him a small smile from the girl; he was finally able to relax a little.

"Want some tea?" He offered. "Or food or…something."

He ran a hand through his hair, desperately thinking of something that didn't sound so lame. He was shocked when the girl's eyes actually lit up.

"Food would be nice," she replied quietly.

Fifteen minutes later he managed a dinner made up of leftovers from the week. Kate ate quietly and quickly, as though someone were timing her.

"You can slow down, you know," he said, amused. "So, you knew Sherlock back when-"

_He was homeless_ was interrupted by a text alert. He took out his mobile, and his heart leapt when he read the message.

_Harriet's awake._

John drew in a sharp breath as he studied his mother's simple message. The lack of explanation told him there was more to the story- and it wasn't good.

"I've got to go," he breathed.

Kate didn't say anything as he got to his feet, but it was the noticing she stopped eating that caught his attention.

"It's my sister," he explained, "she's been in the hospital-"

"It's fine, I can hide here," she whispered.

He had never seen someone look more afraid. Being on her own must usually mean hiding, he realized. And knowing the kind of people she hid from gave her perfectly good reason to be afraid. Turning away, he sent his own text:

_Harry's awake. Need to go to St. Bart's. – JW_

Thirty seconds later and there was no reply. John groaned: Sherlock was ignoring him. Instead of badgering him with texts, John dialed his number.

"What?" Sherlock shot as soon as he answered.

"I'm not taking a sixteen year old girl to the A&E," John said. "It'll terrify her."

"She's sixteen, not six."

He held the phone to his forehead for a moment, trying to not scream in frustration.

"My sister just woke up from a drug-induced coma," John said. "I'm not going to show that to a sixteen year old girl I don't even know."

"And I'm not bringing a drug dealer's daughter to a crime scene at a drugs house!" Sherlock snapped. "I'm onto something, John, something big."

With that Sherlock hung up. John turned around, meeting Kate's eyes.

A half an hour later he was standing in front of Harry's hospital door. Through the glass, he could see his sister propped up in bed. She was staring out the window with vacant eyes, completely unaware of anything else.

"Are you okay?" John looked down at Kate, shocked to hear her concern.

"Yeah, fine," he lied. "Just stay out here, okay?"

The same look of darkness appeared in her eyes, just like back in the flat. As he looked around at all the nurses, visitors- strangers- walking by, he knew he couldn't ask that of her.

"Come inside," he sighed.

He opened the door for her and then stepped in the room himself. Harry turned toward him, and he immediately felt ill at the sight of her. Somehow he thought his sister being awake would mean she would look healthier, though as a doctor he knew that was stupid to think. Instead she still looked pale, almost green. Wires were connected to her chest and arms, including an IV. Her hair was course and frail; her arms limply lay in her arms.

"Hey," he whispered. He reminded himself to take a step closer to her; he couldn't scare her. "This is a friend of Sherlock's."

A half-smile crossed his sister's face, and at last he felt like he could breathe again.

"How do you feel?" He asked her.

He immediately began checking her vitals.

"Just numb," Harry replied. Her voice was far too hoarse.

"Mum?" He asked, noting the empty seats.

"Left," Harry whispered. He felt guilty as tears sparkled in her eyes. "She's ashamed."

"She's not."

John knew he was lying. Kate glanced toward him, interested, but she didn't ask as she settled into one of the plastic chairs.

"She should be," Harry rasped, "you should be."

"I'm not." He swallowed, fighting to keep his own emotions together.

This time, he wasn't lying. He didn't know why, and he knew it wasn't fair, considering how hard he was on Sherlock about drugs, but he wasn't ashamed.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked. A cold, pale, hand fell on his arm. "You look…pale."

He swallowed; he had almost forgotten about the kidnapping. Now that she mentioned it the heaviness in his head returned and the wound etched into his ribcage stung.

"Just a cold," he lied. She let him sit on the edge of the bed next to her, but she flinched slightly when his hand rested on her knee. He immediately withdrew it, noticing the way her eyes drifted. "I'm more worried about you."

On cue, her eyes watered again.

"Harry…" his voice was strained; how could he ask his sister something like this? How was this happening? "If there's anything you need to tell me…I'm not asking you as a doctor, Harry, but your brother. If there's anything-"

She closed her eyes, and he had to look away.

He was crying.

He hadn't openly cried since…

She grasped his hand in hers; she was shaking.

"I don't know who I am anymore," she said, pleading with him so quietly he could hardly hear. "I feel like our lives are falling apart."

"Don't-" he warned. "Don't ever feel that way. I'm going to get you some help. We're going to work on this…I'm not going to leave you alone again."

Reaching down, he wrapped his arms around her, allowing her to cry into his shoulder. His own eyes were closed tightly, desperately fighting away tears.

"Don't ever feel like you can't come to me," he said, "no matter what, okay?"

He felt her nod against his shoulder, but a sickening feeling in his stomach told him this wasn't the end. As they broke apart, his mobile rang again.

It was Sherlock.

"Yeah?" He asked, wiping his arm across his face.

"John, you should come down to the precinct," Sherlock said. "We left the crime scene, and I've been talking with Lily St. Claire."

John glanced to Kate, who looked like she could overhear every word.

"I thought you said St. Claire doesn't have a wife," John said.

There was a pause, then:

"He did. Almost eleven years ago. They were married for a very short period of time before he left her, without warning. The public never even knew about it."

Mouth agape, John felt his heart stop.

"Explain to me what's going on, right now Sherlock."

His own heart began beating more rapidly. He looked to his sister, who was already drifting back to sleep, and to Kate, who looked left out. John had to ignore them both as he stepped outside the room and drew in a deep breath.

"This was around the same time he was rumored to have gotten into the drug world," Sherlock finished.

Sherlock stopped for a moment, drawing in a few deep breaths.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" He asked, remembering Sherlock's own trauma.

"That's not all," Sherlock said quietly. "John…I think we've stumbled into something monumental. Something that will get both of us killed if anyone finds out. Is Kate with you?"

Heart pounding, John glanced at the girl.

"Yeah," he whispered.

_Something that will get both of us killed._ He wanted nothing more than to pack up his sister, grab Sherlock, and get the hell out of London. He didn't want to go through this- not again.

"Someone's after me," Sherlock said. He actually sounded scared. So scared that it terrified him. "This is bigger than I thought. We need to regroup at Baker Street."

"Lestrade-"

"No, no police."

"Sherlock…is someone threatening you?"

There was a pause, and John prepared for the worst.

"No," Sherlock said; John breathed a sigh of relief, though his heart still pounded.  
"There's something else. Mrs. St. Claire had no idea about her husband until she saw a man going down Swandam Lane who was the spitting image of him. When he turned around and saw her, he fled. She followed him into the building, through the corridor, until she found a room with blood on the windowsill. The windows were thrown open; whoever it was went down the fire escape. But that's not even the important part. John…the man she saw was limping and wearing a blue suit."

John held his breath and closed his eyes.

_I was kidnapped by Neville St. Claire._

He had to remind himself to exhale. He was afraid he might hyperventilate.

"I need you to trust me on this, John," Sherlock pleaded. "I made a mistake once, a terrible one. It's coming back to haunt me, and now people are going after you. This is the one time when I don't mind having a brother who can bring the city to its knees at the snap of his fingers."

"I trust you, but Sherlock-"

"I'm going to have Mycroft put you and Kate somewhere safe until-"

"No!" He exclaimed so loudly a few passerby stopped. Sherlock stopped short on the other line. "No, Sherlock, you're not going through this alone. You're about to face something huge, something deadly. If we're going to expose it-"

"That's just it, John, we can't expose it."

John froze.

"You're kidding me, right?" He said.

"Do you want to die, John?" Sherlock asked him.

"That's not fair-"

"Meet me at Baker Street. We'll figure it out."

"Sherlock, my sister-"

"We'll figure it out."

With that Sherlock hung up. Suddenly the rushing feet and hurried voices of the hospital flooded back to him. Behind him, Harry was asleep in her bed while Kate looked on, eyes wide in horror. John leaned his forehead against the glass for a moment as he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

"Kate?" He asked as he entered. "We need to go."

The announcement seemed to stir Harry from her rest.

"Sorry," he whispered as he crossed over to her. Once again he hugged her, and when they parted he realized just how exhausted she looked. And just how drained he was himself. "I need to go, but I'll be back soon, okay?"

She nodded.

"Rest," he instructed. "Get better. Then we'll go from there."

Even Kate offered his sister a small smile.

"I hope you feel better soon," she said in a small voice.

John remembered that she wasn't used to talk to strangers, and he couldn't help but to smile himself.

"Thank you," Harry replied, sincere.

He placed his arms around the girl as he led her back into the hallway. He agreed with Sherlock that Kate should be kept in a safe place. No matter what was going on, even he could begin to see she didn't deserve this.

"Is everything alright?" She asked, looking up at him fearfully.

He sighed. Whenever it got to the point that Sherlock was shutting him out, he knew there wasn't much he could do. All he could do now was answer honestly:

"I don't know."


	10. The Real Boone

By the time they made their way back to Baker Street John had his mind made up: once he stepped in the flat, he wasn't leaving. This night wasn't going to end without grabbing at least a couple hours of sleep. Even the effort of walking from the cab to the foyer left his feet dragging. His head was heavy with exhaustion and emotion, and Kate didn't look any better off. She leaned against the wall as he opened the door to their flat.

"When was the last time you slept?" He asked her, noting the dark bags beneath her eyes.

She shrugged half-heartedly.

"A few days ago?" She offered.

"God, you're worse than Sherlock," he muttered.

The comment earned him a grin, which made him feel slightly better. He wasn't sure why he was trying to impress the girl, but he was trying to figure out what it was about this part of Sherlock's life that was so appealing to him.

"You don't look any better," she shot.

He sighed. The door finally opened, but they didn't make it two steps into the main room before they stopped.

Sherlock was standing with his hands up in the air in surrender. John held his breath when he found the perpetrator: a masked man wearing designer trousers and a tattered flannel jumper that clearly didn't go together.

And then there was the gun.

Slowly, John lifted his hands in the air too, but that didn't stop the masked man from striding forward and grabbing Kate by the forearm. She gasped but didn't scream as she stared at her captor, wide-eyed.

"Hey!" John shouted.

To his surprise the man swirled around, but his answer was the butt of the gun meeting the back of his head. Within moments, he blacked out.

He came to sprawled on the floor, his mouth dry and a sour taste crawling up his throat. Groaning, he rolled over, and as his head turned his eyes found Sherlock. His flatmate was tied to one of their kitchen chairs. His hands were slack behind his back, his head rolled down to his chest, and skin deathly pale. John already knew the diagnosis: drugged.

John stumbled toward him. The room seemed to spin as his hands found Sherlock's shoulders and he nearly fell forward onto him. His pulse seemed normal enough, but he found fresh track marks running down his left hand. Heart pounding, John checked his own arms and was relieved to see he was fine.

"Sherlock?" He whispered as he began to untie him. "Sherlock, I need you to wake up. Wake up!"

He patted Sherlock's cheeks, which seemed to help him stir awake. His flatmate's arms fell limp to his side as the rope fell. John reached for his mobile, only to find it missing. Sherlock's was as well. As his eyes flashed around the flat, he realized what else was missing:

Kate.

He drew in a sharp breath. Sherlock would kill someone over this.

"John?" The soft whisper drew his eyes back toward his friend.

"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "We need to get out of here. He took our phones."

"I didn't set this up," Sherlock mumbled.

John snorted.

"I'm not blaming you, but come on. Can you stand?"

Sherlock's head sort of fell to the side as he failed to nod. John wrapped his arms around his chest, helping him to his feet.

"Kate-"

"It's fine, Sherlock, we'll come back to get her but first-"

"Kate!" Sherlock shouted, his dark eyes dashing around the flat.

"Are you mad?" John shot, staring at him wide-eyed. "He'll hear."

"No, John, _someone_ will hear!"

John fell silent as he realized he was right.

A piercing scream from a teenaged girl drew their attention toward Sherlock's bedroom, where the scream echoed through the flat. Before they could rush forward, the door opened and their captor appeared.

"You!" John cried.

The Man in the Blue Suit. He had changed clothes, but John recognized him easily. The man grinned, and John looked immediately to Sherlock.

"That's him!" John exclaimed. "That's the man who kidnapped me earlier."

But Sherlock didn't reply. Body completely stiff, Sherlock looked ill- and not just because of the drugs.

"Sherlock?" He asked quietly.

"Boone," Sherlock breathed.

John studied him, wondering what the obvious clue was that he was missing. It was all he could do to not yell at Sherlock out of frustration. He was dizzy, his head pounded, the room felt entirely too hot, and he just wanted to _sleep_. He didn't have the energy to deal with Sherlock not making any sense.

"What?" John said, breathing deeply as he tried to keep calm.

"Don't you see, John?" Sherlock replied. "Don't you see it?"

He glanced from Sherlock to the tall man who once again had a gun in his hand.

"No, Sherlock, I really don't," he admitted.

"That's Neville St. Claire," Sherlock said, "and that's Hugh Boone. They're the same person. All these years, and he's fooled everyone. He fooled me. He's a businessman who's secretly run the most successful drugs scheme this city has ever seen. And he's a homeless man who's supposedly working for said drug lord. Except he's not. All that money, all those drugs…he kept everything for himself. All those times we worked together, he used me. He used everyone around him."

_He used me._ He had never heard Sherlock sound so betrayed. John still couldn't believe that Sherlock was talking about the closest thing to a childhood friend he had. He couldn't imagine what was going through his friend's head, but by the looks of it Sherlock was ready to strangle the man.

When he continued, Sherlock never took his eyes off the man.

"Right now he looks like a normal, respected, businessman. But add some theatrical makeup, some fake scars, some more tattered clothing, and a wig, and he makes a pretty convincing beggar. Funny how physical disguises can fool us so easily. All these years, and even I didn't know what I was looking at. But St. Claire is the master of disguise. And this is St. Claire, the man who delved into the drug world sixteen years ago. That's when he fathered Kate- but he didn't know about it, of course. He began using the drug money to build his business empire, and he did a good of separating the two lives. He even met a new woman and married her, and he thought he had the world fooled until a woman showed up at his doorstep with a five year old girl: his daughter. He started caring for them, he didn't have the heart not to. Imagine that, John, a drug dealer with a heart."

Sherlock's eyes drifted toward him, and John stiffened. _Is he really trying to make me feel guilty right now?_

"He began sending Kate and her mother money, but soon her mother became so disgusted with him that she refused to be around him. Ironically, of all things what he cared most about was his daughter. By then the public was getting suspicious of him as well, and he decided it best to separate his professional life from his underground one for good. He assumed the identity of Hugh Boone. He was a beggar who went underground to work the drug world. He told people that he worked for St. Claire, that he could get them whatever they needed with the right kind of money. He causally introduced himself to Kate's mum once again, but as a whole new person. They fell in love with her never realizing she was sleeping with the same man who left her for a world of fame and fortune."

Sherlock looked visibly shaken by now. In his mind, John couldn't help but to run through the drug effects Sherlock must be going through right now. He could see from here the tremor in his hand, the blown pupils, and the sweat pouring across his forehead that he was riddled with anxiety.

"I met him just after I turned twenty-one," Sherlock continued quietly. "Can you imagine that? Twenty-one years old, running around the streets of London and being introduced to drug dealers? I thought I was on top of the world. I thought it was a good way to get back at my brother, who always tried to give me the cookie-cutter life. He told me he worked for Neville St. Claire. He told me who could make me rich, and so we ran around, getting ourselves involved with the most dangerous, darkest, monsters this city has ever seen. He introduced me to the love of his life and his daughter, and I was amazed that someone on the streets could seem to live so _normally_. I would go out, take care of the deals, and bring the money back to Hugh. I thought he was wiring it to St. Claire, but turns out he was pocketing it in his own accounts. He was able to get the drugs easily enough. God only knows the profits he was making, selling double the normal street price."

John closed his eyes as he tried to process it all. His pounding head and nausea weren't helping. He didn't even want to begin imagine Sherlock running around with drug dealers as a twenty-one year old kid. He didn't want to imagine the kind of danger Sherlock lived in, day in and day out. The kind of conditions he lived in. It was no wonder he was so emotionally cold now.

"What I can't figure out is why he's kidnapping you and what debt I owe him," Sherlock said. "Seems like he should have all the credit he ever wanted."

St. Claire smirked, and there was an eerie twinkle in his eye as he looked at Sherlock.

"Do you remember your twenty-fifth birthday, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paled, and John was certain his flatmate might collapse.

"You might want to sit him down, Dr. Watson, he looks a bit pale."

John reached out to Sherlock, but he was pushed away.

"Let him go," Sherlock whispered, his voice cold and angry. "Do whatever you want to me, but let John go."

"Sherlock, no-" John protested, staring at him incredulously.

"How very honorable," St. Claire shot, "he must truly like you."

He shivered, but ignored the remark. Sherlock remained perfectly stiff as he held a protective hand in front of John.

"Why don't both of you sit down," St. Claire said, waiving the gun toward the sofa. He continued to address John: "I'm sure you've heard them call me the most dangerous drug lord in all of London."

John just stared at him, disgusted, exhausted, confused. He couldn't understand how all this was happening; he couldn't understand how Sherlock could stand there, looking so helpless and terrified.

"Please-" Sherlock begged, _begged_.

"Take a seat, Dr. Watson," St. Claire continued casually, ignoring him. "And I'll tell you the story of how that title almost went to Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Author's Notes: So are things beginning to make sense? Yes? No? Am I'm completely crazy? Well, even more will be explained in the next chapter. I wanted this one to be longer, but it was all I was able to write today and I wanted to get something new up.


	11. Payback

Author's Notes: This is a fanfiction-y, alternate world, so if you pick up any mistakes and police procedure or drugs scenes or policy...they're just that, misa

They didn't sit. He remained standing, staring at Sherlock, who was breathing deeply and glaring at St. Claire with a hatred John rarely saw. And when he did, John knew the Sherlock _he_ knew was gone. Despite the slight tremor in his hands, all signs that Sherlock had nearly been drugged into a coma for the second time that week were gone. Instead, his flatmate looked like he was about to tear their captor to shreds.

"Sherlock," John began quietly, not wanting to startle him. "What does he mean?"

There was no answer, and even though he was sympathetic to the situation they were trapped in, he couldn't pretend that he was _okay_ with this.

"Let John go," Sherlock breathed. When he paused for a reaction, the response was a deep laugh from St. Claire. Sherlock tensed, and his voice was darker, unforgiving, when he continued. "Do whatever you want to me- kill me, if you must- but let John go."

A chill went down his spine as he realized just how serious Sherlock was. His flatmate would have taken a bullet for him, right then and there. In the meantime John was staring at him, feeling like he was looking at a stranger.

"No, Sherlock, I think Dr. Watson deserves the truth," St. Claire spat. "After all, he is your flatmate. You two have been working together. And you've probably have told him you're clean."

Sherlock visibly turned a shade paler. John's stomach knotted as he turned to him, his heart pounding.

"Any normal person would be nearly comatose by now with all the drugs that have been pumped through your system this week," St. Claire said. The shadow of a grin appeared on his face, and John was torn between feeling sorry for the way his friend as being persecuted and feeling disgusted. "The amount of tolerance Mr. Holmes has developed for drugs is truly astounding, don't you think _Doctor_ Watson?"

Sherlock's eyes drifted to him, wide and guilt-ridden. But John couldn't help the natural reaction of his hands curling into fist at his side, because even he could see that Sherlock was only sorry that he got caught.

"On the night of his twenty-fifth birthday, Sherlock was so high he couldn't see straight," St. Claire continued, clearly enjoying the tension between him and his flatmate. "So it's no wonder how easily persuaded he was when I presented him with a rather unique opportunity. I was approached with the chance to expand my _business_ abroad. I would be partnering with some of the best, most-wanted dealers in the world. The opportunity would make me rich, richer than I already was. But of course I couldn't just drop everything in my other life and head to the other side of the continent. I was already facing suspicious from people in the corporate world and the police about using. I would need someone who could handle everything."

"You wanted Sherlock to help," John whispered.

Beside him, Sherlock almost looked faint. He was trying to picture it: just turning twenty-five and being told to work with some of the most dangerous men on the continent. He tried to imagine being so removed from reality that he wouldn't understand the danger, the horror of it.

"The only catch was the money I needed to put into the deal up front, to show that I was serious," St. Claire continued. Gone was the air of delight in his voice- his eyes were latched onto Sherlock now. Sherlock remained perfectly still. "I knew the amount was far more than I could withdraw from my accounts without drawing suspicion, and besides I was supposed to be Hugh Boone, who hardly had a penny to spare. Sherlock said he could get it. We were five hours away from the biggest opportunity we would ever see. It was far more exciting than my transportation company, which was being faced with lawsuits left and right. So he left, and I never saw him again…until earlier this week when he found me at Swandam Lane."

He let out a sharp breath as the air finally felt a little thinner.

"What happened?" John asked Sherlock.

"He was infiltrated," St. Claire answered.

"By who?" John said.

Sherlock's eyes darkened.

"Who do you think?"

John swallowed nervously, feeling the icy chill from his tone. _Mycroft._

"Sherlock told the police everything," St. Claire said, "I had to disappear for a while. I fully resumed my other identity, leaving my kid and her mother behind. Understandably, they hated me for it. Things have never been the same between us since. It was years before I threw the police off my trail long enough to emerge again. Of course, by then there was more than a little competition. Everything I built was crumbling down."

"Except for your multi-million dollar transportation company," Sherlock spat.

Neither of them had time to act before St. Claire's fist flew through the air, landing with a sickening _crack_ across Sherlock's face. Sherlock stumbled back, grasping at his nose. John swore as he caught him just before he fell.

"I only avoided being sent to prison because one of my friends from the street gave me warning that people were asking questions!" St. Claire exclaimed.

John's heart leapt to his throat as his voice boomed against the walls. He closed his eyes briefly, hoping Mrs. Hudson wouldn't wonder upstairs to investigate. Meanwhile, Sherlock was testing the shattered bones of his nose. Blood poured down his mouth and chin even as he pressed his palm against the wound.

"What is it that you want?" Sherlock snapped.

He brushed off John's hand. Though he stumbled at first, he was able to steady himself.

"What I want, Mr. Holmes, is to destroy you, like you tried to destroy me," St. Claire said. "What I want is to expose you for who you really are. I don't know how you have managed to hide for so long, but everything you know is about to be ruined."

John was relieved to see that Sherlock didn't look the least bit intimidated.

"What will you do?" Sherlock asked.

He wanted to round on Sherlock and demand to know what he was playing at- why he wasn't fighting back. But all he could do was trust Sherlock had a plan.

"What do you think?" St. Claire replied. "By this time tomorrow there will be no Neville St. Claire. There will be no Hugh Boone. All there will be is reporters flocking Baker Street. Investigators picking apart each and every piece of your past. And you too, Dr. Watson. Will people really believe that you have been so in the dark about all of this? After all, most people would assume their best friend would be kind enough to at least mention they're a drug addict."

His blood ran cold. He couldn't be sure which bothered him more: using 'drug addict' in present-tense or the fact that St. Claire was right. But he couldn't get past how much Sherlock was being bullied. He couldn't get past the trace of fear in Sherlock's eyes that John was certain only he could see.

Sherlock himself looked so in shock that he was completely stiff. John knew the wheels were spinning in his mind. He knew he was drafting a plan of attack. His flatmate was adrift somewhere between fear and determination to not be beaten. And though John knew St. Claire was right, it wouldn't change the fact that he would still support him. Any day.

"What makes you think you're getting out of here alive?" John shot.

St. Claire grinned, but instead of replying all John saw was a giant fist flying toward his face.

And then darkness.

* * *

Author's Note: This chapter was short, but it was essential for setting up the next part of the story. Don't worry, more explanations are on the way! St. Claire's story will make a little more sense soon, and you'll find out the full story of what happened that night at Swandam Lane. Also, I was overwhelmed from the response for the last chapter! I'm really pleased to see that so many people are enjoying the story. I know this is really drifting from the canon of the original story, but it's been a really interesting scenario to pursue. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!


	12. The Photographs

"John?"

With a moan he woke to Lestrade's voice and a light tapping on his face. His eyes batted open painfully, meeting speckles of blood caught in his eyelashes.

"That's it," Lestrade said, helping him sit up. His body felt painfully numb, and the room spun a bit as he was seated against the foot of the sofa. "How many times am I going to have to do this tonight?"

Lestrade chuckled, but John ignored him as his eyes roamed around the room. He took in the blinking police lights from outside, the looming figure of Mycroft Holmes by the front door, and the fact that there was no sign of Sherlock, Kate, or St. Claire. A pool of blood stained the floors where he had fallen. The chair and rope Sherlock was tied to earlier remain tossed aside not far from him.

It was also pitch black outside.

"Christ, what time is it?" He groaned.

He held a hand to his head as he squeezed the eyes shut, trying to block out the pounding in his head. His hand shook slightly. _Blood loss_, he thought.

"Just after eight o'clock," Lestrade replied. "Look at me. How many fingers?"

His vision bounced back and forth as the wavy image of Lestrade's hand was shoved in front of him.

"You're kidding me, right?" John shot.

He didn't want to admit that he couldn't answer him.

"Concussion," Lestrade concluded. "There are paramedics outside. You're going to see them."

John sighed as he held his head in his hands.

"Greg…Where's Sherlock?"

Lestrade's eyes dashed away; he drew in a hesitant breath.

"Come on, you're going to see the paramedics."

"Please- just tell me if he's okay."

He looked up to Lestrade, pleading with him for honesty. Lestrade examined him for a moment, and John couldn't help but to wonder if he was considering how much he could trust him. The D.I. glanced over to Mycroft, who stared at them both for a moment before leaving the room.

"Your neighbors put a call into the police about thirty minutes ago, concerned about some shouting," Lestrade admitted. "I came in and found the flat empty except for you collapsed on the floor. So why don't you come outside, get stitched up, and tell me what happened?"

John's eyes lingered on Sherlock's coat. He realized then St. Claire must have removed it to drug him more easily. In a frenzy, he double checked his own arms just to be sure…

Nothing new.

He let out a sigh of relief.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"St. Claire drugged him again," he said.

Lestrade's face turned white, and John realized then just how little he knew.

"Lestrade," John said; his voice was raw, he had to swallow to be able to speak properly. "There's more."

* * *

He wasn't allowed to go to the A&E. Mycroft stopped them. Instead, he sent way the ambulances and had a black sedan waiting for them. Mycroft road in a different car, leaving he and Lestrade by themselves. Lestrade was clearly not okay with it. He was fidgety as he kept trying to look out the window, though it was completely tinted black.

"Where do you think he's taking us?" Lestrade asked. John remained silent. "Bloody Holmes."

This time he couldn't help but to smirk.

"Which are you talking about?" He asked.

Lestrade looked at him and grinned. But his grin quickly faded, and as Lestrade sighed John realized how tired the Inspector must be. He had been working this case as long as he and Sherlock, with no time to stop and rest.

"John…" his heart skipped a beat as he was addressed, and suddenly he had a sinking feeling of what he would be asked. "I know St. Claire probably told you some things about Sherlock, and you have to know- he's a different person now."

"I know."

"Completely different."

"I know."

John's eyes drifted away, but Lestrade continued to stare at him.

"When I first met Sherlock I was arresting him," Lestrade announced. His eyes swept toward him, stunned. Lestrade swallowed nervously before admitting: "He was in bad shape. Very bad. He was only twenty-six years old, and we found him collapsed in an alleyway where some of his _friends_ abandoned him when word got out the police found evidence of their latest drugs scene. He overdosed on cocaine that night. He first set eyes on me in the hospital, handcuffed to a bed in the A&E."

Drawing in a sharp breath John nodded, pretending like he was comprehending this. Sherlock. Overdosing on cocaine. Twenty-six years old. He felt nauseous, and not because of the head wound.

"That was also the first night I met Mycroft," Lestrade admitted. "And he wasn't happy to find a Scotland Yard detective arresting his brother."

"Wait, you weren't in homicide?" John asked.

"Not back then," Lestrade said, "I was on assignment in narcotics. Turns out I was arresting the younger brother of a very powerful government official, or at least he acted like it. I had no knowledge then that Sherlock was involved with St. Claire, or that he almost accepted a drugs trafficking deal worthy of a prison sentence. I had no knowledge that he had been forced into nine months of rehab, and upon finally getting out he ran away after the first row with his brother. I didn't know that Mycroft tried to talk him into witness protection and settled for having him followed- his every move."

Now he was beginning to understand. The cameras, the hidden talks in abandoned warehouses, the cars constantly trailing him. It was Mycroft's own twisted way of showing concern.

"But I could see that Sherlock was desperate for someone who would take him seriously," Lestrade continued. "He spent nine months being picked apart by therapists, and you could see the toll of it on him. He wasn't trusting, to say the least. But he was hurt, you could tell. He was abandoned by the only people he thought he liked. Worst of all, I refused his insistence to arrest his older brother."

Lestrade smirked, but he didn't bother elaborating.

"He was a good kid who managed to get in with the very wrong kind of people," Lestrade said; his voice fell. "He was helpless. Mycroft's hold on him was so strong that the kid could hardly breathe. It was really no wonder he kept relapsing."

"Where was that hold on him tonight?" John muttered.

Lestrade ignored him.

"I just want you to know this because Sherlock's going to be completely shell-shocked over you finding out his past like this," Lestrade said. "He's very protective of his past, and for a very good reason. He's ashamed, John. He hates who he was."

John suddenly felt guilty for being angry at Sherlock. He knew he had every right to be, but he should have heard him out first. Now Sherlock was off somewhere, thinking he hated him, probably wondering if he was even still on his side.

"St. Claire said he would ruin him," John said; his mouth felt completely dry. He was still in denial that this was happening. "But kidnapping seems a bit blunt, doesn't it? I mean he can hurt and torture Sherlock all he wants, but at the end of the day it leaves him bloody and beaten. He said like he wanted to hurt _Sherlock_- everything he is. It was a personal threat, Lestrade."

"I know," Lestrade admitted. Closing his eyes, the Inspector rested his head against the seat.

John turned to the tinted window next to him.

"Where do you think he's taking us?" John asked.

Lestrade let out a dramatic sigh.

"How's your head?" He asked.

John didn't turn to him, as he lied:

"Fine."

The car finally came to a stop, and Lestrade and John sat up as someone got out to open their doors. Neither the driver nor his companion- Mycroft's assistant, Anthea- so much as looked at them as they were ushered out of the car. John's eyebrows furrowed as he took in where they were: a back street that ran up against the rear exit of a building. From the graffiti on the outside, John would normally guess they were at the back of a club. Knowing Mycroft, this was all a setup.

He looked to Anthea, who simply pointed toward the door. John looked to Lestrade, who nodded. He let Lestrade lead the way as they stepped through the doorway and wondered through a dark corridor, which led toward another door. Lestrade paused for a moment, resting his ear against the door as he listened carefully.

"Anything?" John asked.

Lestrade glanced around, and John followed his eyes to a security cam in the corner by the door to the alleyway. Their eyes met, and John nodded. Lestrade pushed the door open carefully, and he was startled to meet a red-carpeted corridor. Gas lamps lit the way as they walked toward an archway.

"Sherlock's told me about this place," he realized.

He stopped as they reached the main room of the Diogenes Club.

"Seriously, this place?" Lestrade exclaimed.

The chairs and sofas were empty, save for Mycroft Holmes, whose eyes narrowed upon Lestrade's cry.

"Right," Lestrade mumbled, "my apologies."

Grim-faced, Mycroft nodded to them before leading them to the room he had taken John into before.

Mycroft closed the door and quietly crossed over to the desk. He sat behind it, lifting his fingertips to his chin, just as Sherlock would.

Sherlock's brother then withdrew a manila envelope from his desk.

"I received these this afternoon," Mycroft announced.

He handed the folder to John, who pulled out the pictures. He swallowed nervously, but nothing could prepare him for what he saw. A pit fell in his stomach; it felt like the world collapsed around him as soon as he laid eyes on the photographs.

They were photos of Sherlock collapsed in the Bar of Gold. They were photos of the angry red track marks on his arms. He drew a shaky hand toward to his mouth as he passed the photographs to Lestrade.

His entire body went numb.

"This is blackmail," John said, voice shaking. "Blackmail!"

"No," Mycroft said, lifting his eyes to John. "This is payback."

"What do we do?" Lestrade said, handing Mycroft the photos quickly, as though they were cursed. "Shit! What do I do?"

Trembling hands ran over the Inspector's face. John could practically see his heart pounding; the veins in his neck seemed to pop. His own mind was frozen in panic- what did _he_ do?

"I've got to say something to the press," Lestrade stuttered.

He began to pace the room, but Mycroft interrupted before he could continue.

"No." They both stared at him, incredulous.

"You know what they'll accuse him of!" Lestrade exclaimed. The Inspector's face went white, and his voice fell. "You know what they'll accuse me of. I'm not trying to sound selfish, but you have to consider-"

"I know," Mycroft said, holding up his hand. "The events of this week are starting to leak to the press. Of course, no word of St. Claire is mentioned yet."

John placed the photographs on the desk; he couldn't stand to look at them any longer. Mycroft stared at his hands, his eyes deliberately avoiding the other two men in the room as he spoke up.

"John I need to know: is Sherlock doing drugs?"

His eyes went wide as he stared at Mycroft. His instinct was to shout, to ask how dare he sit there- claiming he was Sherlock's brother, claiming he worried about him constantly- and not know the answer to that question.

Instead he swallowed and replied honestly:

"St. Claire said that he was probably convincing me he was clean. But you don't honestly think-"

"I never know what to think about Sherlock," Mycroft admitted.

"You're all talk, you know that?" All eyes in the room shot toward him, but he didn't care. He knew Mycroft could shoot him down with the full force of the Secret Service at any moment, but he didn't care. Even Lestrade's eyes narrowed, warning him not to go on. But he didn't care. "You say that you're concerned about him, but you won't even talk to him. You'd rather kidnap his friends and spy on him with cameras. You want him on a tight leash when he's twenty-six and overdosed on cocaine, but when he was twenty-one and living on the streets you didn't care."

"John-" Mycroft attempted.

"No!" John exclaimed. He crossed his arms, breathing deeply for a moment, begging himself not to freak out because he was yelling at Mycroft Holmes. "This is where that gets him! Where were your cameras and your black sedans when St. Claire kidnapped us? When Sherlock wondered down Swandam Lane on his own?"

"John-" this time Lestrade tried to stop him.

"Why does it matter if he's doing drugs?" John said, his voice reeking with sarcasm. "He was nearly drugged into a coma this week! And again, by St. Claire tonight! Speaking of which, you still haven't even told me where either of them are!"

"JOHN!" His heart leapt at Sherlock's sudden screaming, which clearly came from the room adjacent to them. "John! Call for help immediately! I've been kidnapped AGAIN!"

A grin broke out across John's face.

"Well there's the answer to one of my questions," he said, throwing his hands up in defeat.

"John," Mycroft said calmly. From the sound of it, John would guess he hadn't listened to any word he said. But from the wrinkles buried in the man's face and the drained look in his eyes, John knew it was the opposite- he took the comment to heart. When Mycroft had his attention he folded his hands under his chin, as though carefully choosing his words. "I need you to go in there and ask my brother if he's doing drugs."

John's eyes dashed between Mycroft and Lestrade, incredulous.

"You've got to be kidding me," John breathed. "Why-"

"Because if we're going to make a statement that Sherlock was innocent in all this, that he wasn't purposefully getting high, then we need to make damn well sure that he's not," Lestrade announced.

The D.I. breathed out a sigh, as though relieving tension in his chest. He was sickened to see Mycroft looked grateful for his defense. Worse, he knew they were both right.

Snatching the file from the desk, John stormed out of the room. He easily found the doorway to the next room. When he stepped through he wasn't surprised to find Sherlock literally pounding on the wall adjacent to the room Lestrade and Mycroft were in. Sherlock immediately rounded, striding toward him until they were face to face.

They took a moment to study each other, his eyes finding Sherlock's bandaged nose while Sherlock's eyes roamed the stitches on the side of his head. With a simple exchange of nods, they let each other know they were each relieved to see the other was alright.

"Can you believe him?" Sherlock snapped. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. His hand still trembled slightly, and John began to panic- did St. Claire drug him _again_? "He can manage to lock me up, in the Diogenes Club nonetheless, but he can't protect you from being kidnapped?"

"You were kidnapped too," John said quietly.

Sherlock turned toward him again; it looked like a smart remark was on the tip of his tongue but he didn't say it.

"What did Mycroft tell you to say?" Sherlock demanded. John hesitated, he felt even worse when Sherlock put it like that. "John, St. Claire's on the run. He took Kate. I have no idea where her mum is. So why are we hiding out in the Diogenes club?"

His flatmate's eyes fell to the folder in his hands, and John sighed. He handed the folder to Sherlock, who snatched it away. Sherlock immediately opened it…and froze. Then he a hand ran through his hair again; John couldn't help but to take in how grimy Sherlock's hair was, how it was obvious Sherlock hadn't showered, slept, and or even eaten all week.

He forced himself to snap out of it. He watched instead as Sherlock fell to a sofa by the window. The folder lingered limply in his hands as he went through the photos. His flatmate cleared his throat; when he spoke his voice was weaker than normal.

"What did Mycroft tell you to say to me?"

John hesitated. He walked toward the sofa, taking a seat next to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him, searching his eyes for explanation. It was the closest they'd been since this whole thing started, and it felt strange to sit there, examining Sherlock's eyes and knowing all this new information. He couldn't help but to think _twenty-five years old and drugs trafficking_.

"I need to know if you're doing drugs."

For a split second Sherlock's eyes deflated, jumping in shock of the blunt statement. His mouth seemed to go dry as he looked away. His hands were trembling again.

"Sherlock, it's alright."

Sherlock nodded, appreciative of the sympathy, but it didn't seem to help the panic setting in. At last Sherlock turned back to him; it looked like he was forcing himself to look John in the eye. John stiffened, holding his breath and bracing himself as Sherlock opened his mouth to answer.


	13. Twelve Hours: Part One

His chest felt so tight it felt like he couldn't breathe. Sherlock just stared at him, wild-eyed. John had to resist reaching out and touching him just to prove Sherlock wasn't frozen in time. At last Sherlock opened his mouth, but he paused first before replying, as though he had to remind himself what he wanted to say.

"No."

John breathed a sigh of relief as he threw himself back against the sofa.

"Thank God," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"But I want to." His eyes flashed to Sherlock. Very few times did his flatmate look afraid of what he was saying, but this was certainly one of those times. Sherlock's voice trembled as he fell to a whisper. "Constantly. I tell Mycroft and Lestrade the cravings have gone away to ease their worrying, but they haven't. They never have. When I say I'm bored or when I complain that things aren't interesting enough…I'm just trying to keep myself distracted."

"Christ," John mumbled into the back of his hand.

He couldn't look at Sherlock, not just yet. He didn't want him to see how freaked out he was and how guilty he felt. All these times when he accused Sherlock of being annoying, relentless, insane- Sherlock was just doing the best he could to get by. Suddenly he felt more respect than ever toward his friend.

"I wish you would have told me," John admitted. "You should have told me."

Sherlock stared at him silently, with the pleading eyes of a child. And like a child, John knew he would have to lead Sherlock out of this.

"We have to tell Mycroft," he announced.

To his surprise, Sherlock nodded. His flatmate's eyes darted away, and John knew he was in denial of this being real.

"They can help you- Lestrade and Mycroft," John said. "They know what they're doing. This isn't the end of you, we'll help you through this. Please…let us."

With trembling hands Sherlock scratched at his arms, and John realized the withdrawal symptoms he must be going through.

"Let me take a look at you," John offered. Sherlock stared at him, as though wanting to point out it was useless. "He drugged you again, didn't he? Jesus…"

"He knows my weakness," Sherlock announced dryly. "He knows how to break me. John…it's not just the drugs, he's trying to take away who I am. Who I've been able to become. Don't you see?"

John nodded, because he did see. Sherlock was able to turn his life around in ways that not only got him out of the drug world but that turned him into a hero- a fact St. Claire was obviously envious of. His flatmate's eyes bore into the wall across from him, the one that Mycroft sat behind.

"We have to tell him," John reiterated. "You've got to start being honest with us, Sherlock, all of us."

With a deep sigh Sherlock lay back in the sofa for a moment, gazing up at the ceiling. Then without word he slapped his palms against his knees and leapt off the sofa. John followed him out of the room and into the adjacent one.

Sherlock lingered by the door. His eyes fell on each of them in turn, and when he looked to John he offered him a nod, letting him know he was there. A grim smile peered from his mouth before Sherlock announced:

"I don't do drugs." A sigh of relief came from Lestrade while Mycroft remained stiff. "I want to, but I don't."

"You want to?" Lestrade asked.

John realized the Holmes brothers were staring at either other, as though there was something about this only the two could understand.

"Yes."

There was no explanation, and Lestrade didn't press for one.

"What would you like to do about it, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"It's not about what Sherlock wants," Mycroft announced. John glared at him, but Sherlock didn't seem perturbed. "We have twelve hours before the story breaks. I have all the main press corps on a tight leash, but even I can't keep the story contained from everyone."

"One leak onto the web and this thing explodes," John realized.

Mycroft nodded.

"Meanwhile, Sherlock I would like you to stay off the grid."

"I'm not hiding-"

"You will," Mycroft announced. "You're going to Baker Street, you will stay there for the next twelve hours, and you will sleep. Did you hear that, Dr. Watson?"

He could help but to grin, even as Sherlock glared at him.

"St. Claire is on the run, and he knows I will have eyes on the place," Mycroft explained.

"He probably thought that in the first place, and we see how much that mattered," Sherlock remarked dryly.

Mycroft stared at him but let the comment pass.

"John you are to take him back to Baker Street, look him over, and make sure he sleeps."

"Of course," John offered, "but what about the press? If this gets out they'll flock to Baker Street."

"I'll make sure they don't," Lestrade replied.

"It's good to know we have it all figured out for the next twelve hours," Sherlock shot. "What about when they start accusing me of being high at crime scenes?"

"Are you?" Lestrade said. He took a few steps forward so that Sherlock was face-to-face with the D.I. "Have you ever showed up to a crime scene high?"

Sherlock didn't blink as he replied:

"No."

"If it gets out we'll have a press conference," Lestrade said.

"I don't need to justify this with a press conference," Sherlock mumbled. He tore away from Lestrade and took to pacing the room.

"People will lose trust in you quicker than you could ever imagine," Mycroft said.

"He's right," Lestrade said. "Think about it- the team, the victims' families-"

"Our clients," John pointed out.

Sherlock glared at him, and John fell silent.

"John, I want you and Lestrade to do a thorough check of the flat," Mycroft said, "St. Claire may have tried to hide something there. Sherlock- Sherlock, look at me."

"I won't be spoken to like I'm a child!"

"If anything happens," Mycroft continued, stepping away from the desk for the first time, "you are to phone me. If you hear from St. Claire, if you hear from anyone, you get in touch with me immediately."

"If by get in touch you mean phone your assistant-"

"Sherlock!" Everyone but Sherlock seemed shocked at the outburst. "This is a game, and if you don't start acting like an adult, if you don't start taking responsibilities for your actions-"

"My actions!" Sherlock cried. "I was trying to help a friend when I got caught up in all of this!"

"And look what happened!" John stared at Mycroft, shocked that he was actually raising his voice. "This should be a perfect example of why you shouldn't let your emotions get in the way!"

John caught sight of Sherlock's hands clenching into fist just in time-

"Sherlock, no!" He shot, grabbing his hand. He was immediately pushed away.

"This is what St. Claire wants!" Sherlock snapped. "I'm not giving in."

"Sherlock-" he stepped in front of his flatmate. He tried to force Sherlock to look at him, but he was still glowering at his brother. "We're just trying to help."

"I will not stand in front of all of London and say I'm a drug addict!"

His eyes were finally on John now, allowing him to see how desperate he was.

"There's no way around this Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said. "If- _if_ this gets out, the best thing you can do is confront it head on. It will be better than dealing with the rumors. We're not trying to throw you into the spot light- we're just trying to protect you."

"You don't have to say you're an addict," Lestrade offered. John glanced at the D.I., grateful for the help. "And you'll have my full support."

"Me too," John echoed.

Sherlock looked between the two, at a loss for words. He actually looked frightened, John realized, and perhaps even concerned about his reputation as a detective.

"Is there a car waiting for us?" Sherlock finally asked to no one in particular.

"Yes," Mycroft sighed.

"Then let's go. John?"

His flatmate looked to him. John looked to Mycroft and Lestrade, who he knew were both counting on him. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, offering him one final warning.

A half an hour later they were finally back at Baker Street. John was attempting to pick up the flat while Sherlock stared down his laptop, as though in a trance.

"I thought we told you to sleep," John sighed.

He picked up the chair Sherlock was tied to previously, trying to ignore the memory of his friend looking so helplessly drugged. Sherlock hardly even looked human as his eyes roamed desperately over local news sites. One of his hands rest on the track pad while the other lingered on the rim of his mug, trembling slightly. He slouched down into the seat; his dressing gown was thrown carelessly around the pyjamas John forced him to change into back when he thought his flatmate might get some sleep.

"You're not sleeping," Sherlock mumbled.

"That's because I'm waiting to hear about Harry," he admitted. "Mum says she's doing well."

Sherlock glanced at him over the tea mug, unconvinced.

"You have a concussion that you're worried about. You really should go to the A&E."

With a sigh he ran his hands over his face. Giving up on the state of the flat, he sank down into the couch instead. He was using his concern for Sherlock as an excuse to ignore his own symptoms. A dull headache followed him around since the incident with St. Claire. If he stood up too quickly dizziness hit him in nauseating waves, and he insisted on having the flat dimly lit not because he was hoping to lure Sherlock to sleep but because any trace of light pierced his eyes. But he knew he was okay, he just needed to take a break.

"I've been there enough this week. I'm fine, I just want to keep an eye on things."

What he really meant was he couldn't sleep with the thought of St. Claire still at large. He couldn't sleep with the thought of Harry still being in the hospital and knowing the storm of media backlash he would wake up to. He knew that was why Sherlock was still up, monitoring the internet like a mad man.

"You know we never made the connection between Harry and all of this," John pointed out. "Do you think we should talk to her?"

Sherlock let out a long, dramatic sigh as he buried his fists into his eyes. He would never admit it, but John knew Sherlock had to be exhausted. Drugs were still making their way out of his system, he sported an injured nose, and John still wasn't sure if Sherlock had even slept at all the entire week.

"There's more to this, John," Sherlock sighed. "St. Claire wants to sabotage me, but what's he _doing_? What is he out doing right now?"

"Have you heard from Kate?" Sherlock glared at him. "Sorry, I had to ask."

"She's just a kid," Sherlock said, getting up from the table for the first time. He wondered over to the window and peered out the curtains. It was rare that John saw the traces of _brother_ in Sherlock, but he was beginning to sense the he was more protective of Kate than he ever was of Mycroft. "My only hope is that he sincerely wants the best for her. He'll keep her safe, no matter what he's gotten himself into."

"Yeah, I hope so," John muttered.

As Sherlock settled in the armchair across from him, he didn't have heart to point out that just by being an addict and being a dealer St. Claire clearly didn't have the concern for his daughter Sherlock hoped he did.

"So Harry's doing better?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John nodded. "She is. She may even be able to be back to work by next week."

"Work?" Sherlock asked. By the way his eyebrows furrowed John could tell the wheels were beginning to turn. "You didn't mention she got a new job."

Shrugging, John replied:

"Yeah. Some big office job. She was excited about it."

Sherlock jumped up from the sofa, tossing his empty mug to John, who caught it just before it could hit the floor.

"You should have said something!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"What- why? Why is that important?"

Suddenly his flatmate's hands were on his shoulders.

"That connection we were looking for?" A wild, crazed, sleep-deprive look of excitement swept across Sherlock's face. "I found it."


	14. Twelve Hours: Part Two

Author's Note: I'm incredibly sorry for the long wait! I've been severely ill and haven't had the energy or ability to do much of anything, including write. I really wanted to get a new chapter out, though, so I pieced this together. I hope it makes sense. If not, blame the half a dozen medications I'm on.

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm really not following!" John complained.

He followed Sherlock as he rushed through the doors to Harry's hospital wing.

"Of course you're not!" Sherlock exclaimed. He was absolutely shaking with anxiety and excitement. "If you were following you would have told me about this a long time ago!"

"Sherlock!" He attempted to grab his flatmate's arm, but Sherlock was too fast. Quickly finding Harry's room, Sherlock barged in.

John's face went red when he realized they weren't alone. His mum was seated beside Harry, an absolute wreck.

"Harry," Sherlock said. He was actually attempting to shake his sister awake.

"Sherlock, don't do that!" John exclaimed. "Christ, don't you think?"

"John?" His mother asked softly.

He stole a glance toward her, begging for her to somehow understand. He felt guilty as he caught sight of the bags beneath her eyes and her unkempt hair. She and Harry looked almost like spitting images of each other at that moment; all of them were exhausted beyond belief.

In the midst of the chaos Harry let out a soft moan as she stirred awake. Her eyes immediately found John, and his stomach twisted into knots. Although she had regained some colour her eyes still appeared hazy and far-away. Slowly her hand reached up for his, and he took it, squeezing her wrist lightly.

"Sherlock has some questions for you," he told her. "I promise he'll be nice."

He glared at Sherlock, warning him, and drew up a chair next to her.

"Thomas Reynolds," Sherlock announced, arms crossed- as though he proved his point simply by revealing a name.

Harry paled.

"What?" She shot, her throat dry.

"Thomas Reynolds, the man you were having sex with."

"Sherlock!" John roared.

His eyes widened in horror; his mother jumped to her feet.

"_What?!"_ His mum exclaimed.

"Mum!" Harry begged. She looked like she might throw up.

"The nice man you met on your first day at work," Sherlock continued, glowering at Harry. "Probably offered you a coffee, maybe kept you company at lunch. You were upset over yet another breakup-"

"You didn't tell me-"

"Must you keep interrupting?" Sherlock snapped, silencing his mother. She immediately crossed her arms, mouth agape in shock. John groaned, running his hands over his face, hoping that somehow he was imaging this. "As I was saying, upset over another breakup you all too eagerly accepted his offer for drinks. You slept together once, maybe twice, before you discovered his habits."

"Christ," John muttered, hand hovering over his mouth. "He was a drug addict."

"You were curious. You were depressed. So when he offered to take you-"

"Sherlock, just stop!" John warned.

Harry was in tears now, and their mother looked on the verge of her own meltdown. His hand rest on Harry's shoulder as he desperately searched for a way to end this.

But of course Sherlock just ignored him.

"He left in the middle of the night to meet Boone for a deal." John winced at the use of "Boone" and not "St. Claire". Despite the fact he was furious with him John couldn't help but to feel sorry that he was still hurt.

Sherlock fumbled with something in his pocket and withdrew a very familiar mobile.

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed. "That's mine, how did you get it?"

Sherlock only grinned as he began searching through files. John could only raise a hand to his forehead in attempts to hide his face. Naturally, the first time Sherlock met his mother and he acted so very…_Sherlock._

"This is the man who recognized me," Sherlock announced, waiving the phone around so everyone could see the image of a man much older than Harry. He looked sharp in a business suit and hair, obviously dyed to hide the grey. But in his eyes John could see a hidden darkness, a smirk behind his façade that made his skin crawl. "Except he didn't recognize me. He recognized Boone."

"St. Claire," John whispered.

It was a useless argument.

"Because you've been working for him, the real him. Both of you have."

Once again Harry looked like she may be sick. Her vitals spiked as her heart raced. John rubbed a hand against her back, trying to get her to calm down.

"Sherlock, _please_," John pleaded. "She's upset-"

"She should be!" The three of them froze at Sherlock's outburst, and at last his flatmate seemed to realize where he was and what he was doing. Breathing in a few deep breaths, Sherlock turned to him, crestfallen. When he spoke again he was much quieter, like usual when he realized he should feel guilty. "He recognized St. Claire, and he realized what was happening. He realized who he was working for. He kidnapped us, and I still can't remember what happened after that."

He fell silent as he turned away. As Sherlock wrapped his arms around his chest John couldn't help but to once again only feel empathy. He was aware his mother was glaring at him; he could feel her disproval radiating from her. Yet when Sherlock simply tossed the mobile onto Harry's bed and fled the room John didn't hesitate to follow him.

"Sherlock!" He called after him as Sherlock stormed down the corridor. He caught up with Sherlock just in time, grabbing him by the arm a little too hard. Sherlock swirled around, and John froze at how hopeless he looked. "I don't have to tell you how inappropriate that was."

Heaving a heavy sigh, Sherlock nodded.

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

John gazed at him, astonished.

"So that was my mother," John said. A hollow laugh escaped him.

"Yeah," Sherlock said; he looked a bit too pale. "She seemed a bit bitter."

"You think?"

He rested against the wall next to Sherlock, allowing himself a moment of peace as he closed his eyes. He took in the familiar sounds of the hospital and was grateful for some kind of normality. Never had he been so eager for a case to be over with.

When he lifted his head against he was met with an electrical shock that sent his hands to his forehead, clenching at his skin.

"Come with me," Sherlock said, grabbing his arm.

"What no-"

A wave of dizziness took over him and he stumbled to a stop, grasping at the wall.

"Okay, I may be sick," he mumbled.

He slumped down to the floor before Sherlock could stop him.

"Is he alright?" One eye opened to find a nurse staring at them.

"Does he look alright?" Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, I'm fine!"

"You just said you were going to throw up!" Sherlock protested.

"I'm just a little nauseated-"

"He has a concussion," Sherlock said to the nurse. "Which he has been ignoring, like a child!"

John peeled both of his eyes enough to glare up at him, incredulous.

"Are you being serious right now?!" He exclaimed.

"Sir, maybe you should come with me," the nurse said, offering a hand.

He looked up at her, torn. He knew Sherlock shouldn't be out in public, not with St. Claire at large and not with a potential media target on their backs. But as he shifted his vision danced in front of his eyes and at the second wave of nausea he knew Sherlock's intentions were pure.

"Fine," he mumbled.

A half an hour later John sat on a hospital bed, preparing to leave. Sherlock stood across from him, staring at him intently.

"You're a hypocrite, you know that," John shot. Sherlock smirked. "And you know we shouldn't be here."

"Then what should we be doing?" Sherlock replied. "Should we be in hiding?"

"We've got to talk, you know," John said. "About what you're going to say."

Sherlock's eyes dashed away as he stiffened, and John realized this wasn't the first time his flatmate considered this.

"I know," Sherlock muttered. "You don't have to stand by me. People will talk-"

"Let them."

Their eyes met, and they both broke out into smiles. Sherlock looked to the ground, sheepishly hiding the fact that he was clearly flattered.

"I don't deserve you," Sherlock sighed. He glanced at John, examining his injuries. "Feel better?"

"I can stand without falling over dizzy," John replied. "I would say that's improvement. Back to Baker Street, then?"

"Are you kidding?" Sherlock smirked. "We're just getting started!"

Groaning, John ran his hands over his face.

"No, Sherlock, we've got to sleep!"

"This week it's sleep and you die," Sherlock said. He placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Remember that."

"Reassuring," John mumbled.

"There's something you're forgetting," Sherlock began, "about Reynolds."

John's eyes widened.

"He's still out there!"

Sherlock nodded.

"He's out there, and St. Claire got away from him. That means either St. Claire killed him or he will kill him."

"Hang on," John said, stopping just as they left out of the room, "this is a drug addict who seduced my sister. Why are we helping him?"

"Because it leads us to St. Claire."

Suddenly Sherlock's mobile rang, and he scurried to fetch it from his pocket. John watched as Sherlock exhaled slowly before answering.

"Lestrade." Their eyes met, and John knew it was serious. "No, we'll be right there."

He pocketed the phone and immediately darted toward the exit, leaving John fighting to catch up.

"What happened now?" John demanded.

"Lestrade found Reynolds," Sherlock breathed.

"How does he even know-"

"He doesn't," Sherlock replied. He stopped briefly when they were outside. Once again Sherlock trembled with anxiety; his face had gone completely white. Their eyes met once again, and John swallowed nervously in anticipation. "They're both trying to throw each other off St. Claire's office building. They're high. And they've got Kate."


	15. Author's Note

Author's Note:

I just wanted to let everyone know that I am alive, and I do intend to finish this story if people still want to read it. I think I mentioned this a couple of weeks ago, but I was extremely ill for a long time in March and eventually ended up in the hospital. I didn't have the energy to write or even think about writing so I got super behind on all of my stories. Things are turning back to normal now, I'm finally catching up on work and my schedule is much easier so I should be able to concentrate on this story now. We should really only be a couple of chapters away from an ending! So if anyone's still sticking around, thanks so much for your support! I'm SO sorry I had to abandon it for so long!


	16. On the Rooftop

"Sherlock, I'm begging you! If ever there was a time to wait for Lestrade, it's now!"

Sherlock darted out of the cab before it even came to a complete stop. The cab dropped them off at the back of an office building; John could just make out the shadows of blue police lights in the distance. Lestrade would have arrived just before them, and the team would be making their decisions on how to act now. Instead of waiting for their word, Sherlock was already picking his way through an emergency exit in the back. John kept glancing to the rooftop, hoping to catch sight of their suspects, but he couldn't see anything.

"Sherlock-"

"Ten stories above us are two insane drug addicts with a gun pointed to a teenage girl's head!" Sherlock shot. "I will _not_ wait for the police."

John threw his hands up in defeat.

"No, why would we need the police for that?!" He exclaimed.

He was ignored as Sherlock led him into a dark back entryway. His flatmate threw him a look that read "shut up or stay put", and against his better judgment he followed him up a stairway to the roof.

When they reached the stop Sherlock immediately froze, sending John stumbling against him. St. Claire was on the very edge of the rooftop, using Kate as a shield against the gun facing him. Standing just a few feet away from the father and daughter was the man from the photo- Thomas Reynolds.

Both mens' face were covered in sweat. Reynold's hands shook madly around the gun, and he was much paler than he appeared earlier in the picture. Their eyes were both wild, as though they weren't fully aware of what they were doing. As John's eyes danced from one man to the other, trying to catch up, he could only think _this was Sherlock_.

"Did I ever tell you that you're great father material, St. Claire?" Sherlock grinned. "Just brilliant. Using your own daughter as a human shield…I've got to say that's something I've never seen."

St. Claire stayed silent as he glared at him, but Reynolds snorted.

"I knew it was only time before you showed up," Reynolds shot. "The bitch must have told you everything."

John's chest tightened along with his fists, but when he stepped forward to say something Sherlock put a hand up.

"Careful," Sherlock warned. "That's his sister you're talking about."

Reynolds only laughed, making John's ears burn with embarrassment. He would have rather Sherlock not said anything at all.

"Well let me just say that she's lovely," Reynolds snorted. "And if I do say so myself, quite a good-"

John's hand was in his pocket and gun in the air before Reynolds could even dare to finish. Reynold's fell silent, his eyes wide.

"You want to finish that sentence?" John shot. He took a step closer, ignoring Sherlock's warning eyes. "Go on. My sister was in a coma because of you!"

"John-" Sherlock whispered.

Ignoring him again, John stepped closer to Reynolds.

"What's stopping me from putting a bullet through your brain right now?" He went on. Reynolds stared at him, his breathing sharp and uneven. "Do you really think I've never killed anyone before?"

He knew he was taking this too far. His own heart was pounding, he was sweating all over, and it was all he could do to stop himself from shaking. It was only when he stole a glance toward St. Claire that he realized he actually had a good advantage.

"You have two guns pointed at you," John said to Reynolds. "Two madmen who would love to see you leave this scene in a body bag. I know you value your life more than that."

Reynolds stared at him a moment longer, his eyes hardening- a sign he was taking him seriously. At last Reynolds turned the gun over, took it apart, and put the pieces on the ground. He had to hold back a sigh of relief; there was still the question of St. Claire.

"She was the one who wanted the drugs," Reynolds muttered. "The slut couldn't keep her hands off of-"

A shot rang out and Reynolds screamed, grabbing his leg. John's eyes narrowed in on the man's new wound, embedded just beneath his knees. Sherlock's eyes went wide as he turned to him, but John only shrugged:

"Self-defense."

Sherlock stayed silent as he turned back to St. Claire.

"The game's up," Sherlock said. "We can forgive you for the kidnappings-"

"We can _what_?" John exclaimed, earning him another angry glare.

"I know this isn't the life you want, so fine," Sherlock said. "Let me take Kate. She doesn't deserve this. She's just a kid."

Kate was sobbing now. A trembling hand tried to catch the hair being whipped around her face in the wind. John's heart broke for her. He couldn't imagine what it was like, being raised in this life. The helplessness she must feel…nothing was normal for her. He was truly beginning to understand why Sherlock seemed so connected to her.

"You ruined everything for me," St. Claire said. His voice was showing signs of breaking, and beside him Sherlock seemed to relax. "You sold me out for fame and money."

Sherlock let out a hollow laugh, surprising even John.

"I don't have money," Sherlock replied. John couldn't help but to wonder if he was speaking the truth. While he seemed to be able to get unlimited funds from Mycroft, Sherlock himself seemed to be struggling. He never had the guts to guess what the story was there. "And I didn't go out without a fight. Someone pulled me off the streets, and they probably saved my life by doing so. I'm sorry I never did the same for you."

John drew in a deep breath as it hit even harder how guilty Sherlock felt- even still, after everything that happened.

"Let me help you now," Sherlock said. "I'll help you negotiate with the police. I'll keep Kate safe. I can promise your family will have protection."

St. Claire's grip was slipping on the gun, but he didn't let up. His eyes dashed from Sherlock to John, almost as though trying to figure out what they really wanted him to do. Behind him, Kate's face was white and cheeks red from the cold. Her lips were the slightest shade of blue, and John found himself worrying about the kinds of conditions she was stuck in. But he knew she wasn't only frantic from the cold: she too had just found out the truth about her father.

"It's over, St. Claire," Sherlock said. "The story's out. You're surrounded. If you kill us you'll only add four counts of murder to your record. Don't make this any harder for yourself."

St. Claire let out a sort of half sob, half cry. John knew it was only the drugs breaking him down, and he knew Sherlock was only talking him down because his flatmate was also aware of the state of St. Claire. But John knew as a soldier that emotional distress did nothing to ease things for someone with a gun in his hand. He kept his fingers tight around the trigger; his eyes followed St. Claire's every move.

As if to prove a point, Sherlock carefully stepped over to Reynolds' dismantled weapon and picked it up. He put it together again at an impressive speed, and they both had guns pointed at St. Claire.

"It's over," Sherlock repeated.

St. Claire stared at them another moment before doing the unthinkable. He threw Kate to the side and charged toward the edge of the roof. Kate screamed. Sherlock echoed her with a frightening _"NO!"_

For a split second, St. Claire hesitated on the edge, and it was Kate who grabbed him.

"No!" She sobbed.

"You're not a coward," Sherlock shot. "There's still some chance of not ruining her life forever."

St. Claire drew in a deep breath and turned around slowly. Sherlock kept the gun pointed at him tightly while holding out his hand, asking for the other weapon.

After another moment of hesitation, St. Claire gave it to him. John let out a grateful sigh. Sherlock reached out, making sure he got off the ledge okay. Once in the clear, Kate collapsed to the ground, face drenched with tears as she sobbed. John glanced to Reynolds, and when he saw the man was still in a helpless crumble on the ground, he rushed toward her.

"It's alright," he said, kneeling beside her. "You're safe." She only cried harder, and he knew he was in no place to tell her everything was okay. It was more important now to make sure she was okay physically. "Look at me."

She lifted her face to him, allowing him to look into her eyes. She was desperately fighting back tears. He brought a hand to her wrist and stopped when he felt her freezing skin.

"Did he hurt you? Drug you?" She shook her head and let out a choked sob. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Let me take you to a paramedic, please."

"No," she whispered through tears.

"Leave her, John," Sherlock said. John looked up at him, confused. Sherlock held St. Claire up by his arm. The man's eyes were bloodshot and he was incredibly unsteady. "He's not going to stay conscious for long. Whatever he's using…it's not good."

He noticed Sherlock's eyes trailing toward Kate, mindful of her role in this, and John respected that by replying with a stiff nod. At that moment the police arrived on the scene, immediately taking Reynolds into custody.

"Why the hell was he shot?!" Lestrade exclaimed.

Sherlock and John looked at each other.

"Self-defense," Sherlock replied, and John offered a grateful smile. He shoved St. Claire toward Lestrade. "Here. He needs the hospital."

Lestrade let a few of his men deal with the criminals and instead ushered he and Sherlock to the other side of the roof, so they were out of earshot. His eyes flashed between the two, and John couldn't help but to swallow, nervous. Somehow a lecture from Lestrade always felt like a lecture from his mum.

"I don't have to tell you two how stupid that was!" Lestrade hissed. He glared at them another moment before breaking down with a sigh. "But we caught him. You two caught him. It'll be nice to have some positive press."

John noticed how uncomfortable Sherlock looked, and he realized what Lestrade was talking about.

"I've booked some time with the media," Lestrade admitted. "Tomorrow afternoon. I want you two to go home and rest until then- and that's an order. No more emergency calls, alright?"

They both nodded, John feeling more like a child than ever. Sherlock only glared at the D.I. as he began to walk away. Suddenly, Lestrade stopped and turned back toward them.

"Actually, yes, call if there's an emergency. Please, god, _call me_ when things happen!"

Lestrade ran his hands over his head, as though fighting to stay calm, and John was grateful for his efforts. Once Lestrade disappeared with his team down the steps, John turned to Sherlock.

John wanted to slap Sherlock in the face when he grinned.

"Oh, come on!" Sherlock exclaimed when he saw his reaction. "We just caught one of _the_ most wanted drug dealers of the past decade. That'll be one for the blog!"

Sherlock tried to start toward the stairs, but John grabbed him.

"No, it won't," John sighed. "Sherlock, we have to talk about this. I know you wanted to keep this part of your past in the past, but there's no turning back now. You've got to deal with this or you'll be in a world of hurt."

He was met with a look so helpless, so pained, that is made him cringe inside. He wanted to comfort Sherlock, wanted to say something, but he didn't even have an idea of where to start.

"I'm going to make sure Kate's okay," Sherlock stated quietly. "I'll meet you back at the flat."

He tore off before John could say another word. He was left alone, on a rooftop looking over London. As he stood there alone, eyes roaming about the city, he felt like the world was spinning around him at a maddening pace and he just couldn't get free.

Yet somehow, he had the sickening feeling that all of this would come crashing around him very, very soon.

* * *

Author's Note: I'm sorry if the writing was a bit rough. It's been way too long since working on this story! The next chapter might be the last if I can fit everything in...there's a chance I might split it into two. There's a final case wrap-up, some more about Sherlock's past, and of course the press conference. So stay tuned! Thanks again for your patience! For those who asked, I am much, MUCH better! And receiving all of your kind comments only helped! I'm so grateful for all of you! Thanks for sticking through this story!


	17. Everything: Part One

John breathed in deeply as sunlight hit him through closed eyelids. He couldn't remember sleeping that soundly in ages. The flat was completely silent; he could only hope that meant Sherlock was still asleep too. A glance at the clock told him it was just past seven. Still a little early for his taste, but he realized the more likely scenario was that Sherlock was wide awake and pacing the flat in anticipation of his upcoming speech. Their press time was booked for eleven, and Lestrade expected them at the Yard in just a few hours.

It was curiosity that finally coaxed him out of bed. A few stifled yawns as he made his way downstairs reminded him he was nowhere near as rested as he wanted to be. He expected to see Sherlock stomping around, throwing things about, and cursing under his breath as he practiced his speech. Instead he was passed out on the sofa, dozens of pieces of paper sprawled out across his belly and legs. He sighed deeply at the sight of him, dreading the task of having to wake him.

"Sherlock," he announced quietly. Not even a stir. He approached the sofa carefully and began picking up the papers. At the movement Sherlock jerked awake, glaring at him. "Sorry. Looks like you fell asleep writing."

Letting out a deep groan, Sherlock sat up. He ran a hand through his mangled hair as his eyes adjusted to the light. He moved over enough to let John sit down, and he couldn't help but to skim over Sherlock's writing.

"Sherlock…" he began, bringing a hand to his mouth in shock. "Sherlock, you can't use this!"

Sherlock grabbed the paper he was reading, staring at in confusion.

"Why not?" He shot. "I thought it was good."

"Well for one you call the DCI a despicable lunatic who could do with a good washing."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock threw himself back against the cushions.

"It's true!" Sherlock shot.

"Here," John said, reaching for a pencil that lay forgotten on the floor.

He thought for a moment before sending the pencil dancing across the paper, etching out a few ideas for an introduction. He was hardly about to get through a couple of paragraphs before Sherlock tore the paper away.

"This…this…isn't bad," Sherlock stammered after skimming the paper.

John let out a small laugh.

"Yeah, well I took a couple of writing courses way back when," John admitted. "And the blog, remember? Look, I can work on the speech just…rest, alright? You'll need it. The last thing we need is you up there stammering because of sleep deprivation."

A few hours later they waited outside the conference room where the press was gathered. They were dressed up, probably more so than they had ever been. Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable in his suit and tie, but clothes seemed to be the least of his worries as his eyes kept dashing toward the window in the doorway. All of the press were seated now, with their cameras ready and their pens and notebooks out.

"Sherlock, look at me," John demanded, grabbing Sherlock's arm so that he was forced to face him. Sherlock's face was practically swollen with anxiety; he looked like he might be sick. Their eyes met, and John knew he was pleading with him to offer comfort. "You'll do fine. How many murders have you solved for these people? Nothing will take that away."

"You would be surprised," Sherlock replied, his voice dry and hoarse.

"Lestrade!" John called. The D.I. immediately abandoned his conversation with the D.C.I. and headed to them.

"How is he holding up?" Lestrade asked him, glancing at Sherlock. He frowned. "He looks like he might be sick!"

With a groan, John shot:

"Can you get someone to get him some water?" John said. "And we'll make this quick, yeah? Are we doing questions and answers?"

Lestrade hesitated and glanced to the awaiting press.

"They'll want to," Lestrade admitted. "It might be good to rip the band aid right off. Otherwise you'll have the rumors-"

"No." They both turned to Sherlock. His eyes were locked on John's, turning to him for support. "I don't care about what the press wants to know. If you don't want me working with the police, then fine. If that's going to bother the public, then fine."

"You don't mean that-" John attempted.

At the same time, Lestrade spoke over them both:

"I never said-" he grabbed their attention immediately, and he had to take a breath in order to calm down and not scream at them in the middle of the hall. "I never said you couldn't work with us. Will the press be pissed? Yeah. Will the public be pissed? Yes, they will. But it will pass. You're staying on my team, Sherlock, rather you like it or not."

With that he stormed away, leaving Sherlock standing in shock. John had never seen him look so speechless. It was like he was realizing for the first time that he truly had Lestrade's support.

"Sherlock?" He asked quietly.

"Fine," Sherlock replied, a little more high-pitched than normal. "I'm fine."

Before John had a chance to say anything, the PR girl who was coordinating everything walked up to them. She offered Sherlock a calm smile before saying:

"They're ready for you."

Sherlock nodded. His entire body looked completely stiff, and John placed a hand on his shoulder as they entered the room, hoping to help calm him down. He was aware Lestrade was right behind them as they entered the room full of flashing cameras. Whispers filled the room as they settled into place, with Sherlock right in the center of the table and John and Lestrade on either side of him.

John had to remind himself to not stare at Sherlock the whole time. Instead he picked a spot on the wall opposite to them, directly above their audience, and listened as the conference began.

Sherlock cleared his throat- a little too loudly as he was right in front of the microphone – and gripped the papers containing his speech a little too hard.

"I started working with a drug dealer named Hugh Boone when I was twenty-one years old," Sherlock began. He had to take another deep breath before he could continue, but he managed the rest of the speech without stopping: "I helped him secure deals and the money we made from them. I began using cocaine and became addicted to the drug. We did that for four years until Boone had his sights set on an international opportunity."

It was at that moment that John noticed Mycroft squeeze his way into the room. He clung to the walls as his eyes fell on Sherlock. John couldn't be sure if Sherlock noticed, but John swore he seemed to calm down a bit as he went on:

"As we all found out this week, Boone wasn't who he said he was. I sincerely had no idea. I was young and…quite lost. I was lucky enough to have family who cared enough to pull me out. I got help, and I got better, and my entire life changed. I began working with the police and for once, I had a purpose. An honest…purpose."

John's heart began to pound. His eyes met Lestrade's as they both realized at the same time: Sherlock was going off-script. This was from the heart, and he'd never heard Sherlock sound so sincere and so desperate for people to understand him.

"Working with Lestrade's team helped me realize what I had to live for…and I can't say enough how grateful I am for that opportunity. I know I lost some trust this week after some of this came to surface…but I'm still me. I'd like to keep working with the police so that I can help put people like Neville St. Claire behind bars. A lot of rumors have been spreading about me, and John, and our families…just please…respect our privacy."

With that Sherlock stood, and the press went mad. John followed Sherlock as he rushed toward the door instead of waiting for Lestrade's permission to end the conference. They left the D.I. to deal with the aftermath as Sherlock burst through the door and took off down the hall.

"Sherlock!" John called after him. He chased him down to the exit at the end of the hall and out into the alleyway. Sherlock ran until he reached the end of it, where he finally collapsed against the wall. He buried his head into his arms and brought his knees to his chest, almost childlike. John fell to the ground next to him, and offered him a moment of solace before whispering: "That was brilliant."

Ever so slowly Sherlock looked up to him. His cheeks were stained from the few tears that escaped him. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was breathing a bit too hard.

"Really?" Sherlock asked.

John had to take a moment to wrap his mind around how small Sherlock's voice was, how shaking he was. At last his face broke into a grin.

"Yeah," he nodded. "It made my introduction look pitiful."

A small smile spread across Sherlock's pale face.

"I had some help from Mrs. Hudson," he admitted. "She's always told me that it's best to be honest. I thought she was just full of it…but I know how upset Lestrade's been, and I know how much trouble he'll get in after all of this is out."

"It was the right thing to do," John agreed. "I think everyone was impressed. You should have seen the look on Lestrade's face. I think he thinks of you a bit like a son…he was proud, Sherlock, I could tell."

Sherlock's face fell. He looked like he might break, and for a moment John thought Sherlock might openly break into tears.

"I was proud," John admitted. "And thanks…for asking them to respect our privacy. You didn't have to add that part."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Harry will be out of the hospital soon. I have Kate to deal with… we don't need reporters hanging around."

"Yeah, well I'm here for you," John offered, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His flatmate turned to him, as though he were still shocked to have his support. "I know there is still a lot going on with Harry, but I'm here, and I want to help. What you told me, back at the Diogenes…that's something we can work through. Those cravings, I mean. I know you've had Mycroft and Lestrade…but have you ever had someone you can really talk to about this?"

Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but someone else answered for him:

"No, he hasn't." They both looked up and were startled to find Mycroft hovering over them. "And for that, I'm truly sorry. But you did fine, Sherlock. You did well."

Sherlock nodded; his face seemed to be frozen with the shock of receiving comfort and support from his brother.

"I'll see to it that you two aren't bothered by the press," Mycroft offered. "And John- if you and your sister need anything…"

He trailed off, but John understood and nodded to let him know. He knew how hard it was for both of the Holmes brothers to offer any kind of emotional support, and the fact that he was witnessing that from both of them felt a little surreal.

"I have a car waiting for both of you," Mycroft said. "Please, take it as a safety precaution."

Nearby a sudden bustle of noises erupted, signaling the press leaving the precinct. Sherlock suddenly jumped to his feet, and John followed. Of all the things that shocked him about that day, nothing shocked him more than when Sherlock extended a hand to his brother and they shook. The Holmes brothers looked each other in the eye as Sherlock offered, sincerely:

"Thank you. I think I'd like to talk to Lestrade. Can you make sure John gets home safe?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Of course," he said quietly.

They broke apart just as John's mobile buzzed. A smile broke across his face, and he nearly erupted into tears himself when he explained:

"My sister's out of the hospital. She's doing well. Sherlock, I…I should go be with her. I guess my mum's still pretty pissed."

"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding so much like Mycroft. "Go be with her. I'll be fine."

He offered Sherlock a small, grateful, smile as he took off down the other end of the alley. He was almost out to the street when Sherlock called after him and appeared right behind once again.

"She should stay with us," Sherlock said. John's eyes widened, completely in shock. "I know a little bit about what she's going through, and she shouldn't go through it alone. You're a good brother, John. Stay with her, let her stay with us…just do whatever you need to do."

"That's really nice of you," John replied. "I'll give you a call once I get her discharged. Are you sure you're alright?"

Sherlock's eyes were trailing somewhere behind him, and John turned to realize Lestrade was outside talking to some of the press.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock promised. "Thanks, again…"

But before he finished, Sherlock was rushing off to catch up with Lestrade. John watched him for a moment, admiring the absolute professional way he was handling everything. Maybe Sherlock really could change. Maybe this experience would be an eye-opener that would make Sherlock realized how much he valued the work he was able to do.

He snapped out of his reverie and glanced back to Mycroft, who was busy talking on his mobile. It didn't take him long, though, to find the correct car. Not-Anthea was leaning against a black Sedan, texting away as always. He let out a long sigh of relief as he walked away from the scene, but John knew that he was only walking away from one nightmare to step into another. Checking Harry out from the hospital would be the easy part. Frankly, getting Sherlock to talk to the press was the easy part. Helping them both overcome their traumas at the same time would be a whole new challenge. He had to convince himself he was ready for it. Sherlock and Harry were two people he couldn't lose, and the thought of having both of their futures on his shoulder was nauseating.

Not-Anthea said nothing to him as they both slid into the backside of the car. They started heading to the hospital without John having to tell anyone where to go. He didn't question it. He was done with questioning it.

Just as he was letting out a shaky breath and settled into the seat his mobile buzzed. He withdrew it, recognizing Sherlock's contact information immediately.

_I want to tell you everything – SH_

John blinked as he stared at the screen, not sure what that was supposed to mean. Everything? Did that meant he didn't already know everything?

_Okay- JW_

He swore under his breath as soon as he hit send, earning him a sharp glare from Not-Anthea.

_I want to hear…like I said I'm here for you- JW_

Wincing, he grimaced at his own writing. He just wasn't sure what to say- or what Sherlock wanted to here. He was grateful when Sherlock simply replied:

_Meet me at that pizza shop next to Harry's flat. Whenever you're ready._ –SH

At the very mention of food his stomach already growled, and that combined with the anxiety of wanting to know what Sherlock was going on about made him want to head there now. But the hospital was coming into view, and he knew what he had to do first.

"Here you are, Dr. Watson," Not-Anthea announced.

"Thanks," he whispered.

He sent a quick "I'll be there, call if you need me" text to Sherlock as the car came to a stop. Drawing in a deep breath, he gave himself a silent pep-talk, convincing himself he could do this. Rain drizzled around him as the feet hit the pavement, and his heart pounded as he raced toward the entry. He was stopped by another buzz from his mobile before he could enter.

_Take care of Sherlock- MH_

John closed his eyes briefly, trying to block out the rest of the world for a moment. It was a trick he learned in Afghanistan- close your eyes, take a deep breath. There was no stopping what was coming for him so he just had to accept that he could do this.

He opened his eyes again and raced into the hospital just as the sky opened up.

* * *

Author's Note: I'm sure you're tired of my excuses by now so I won't bother with them But finally, the first part of the ending! Thank you all SO much for your support! I decided at the last minute to split this chapter up in two parts. The second part will feature a final heart-to-heart and will wrap up the stories of both Kate and Harry. I know it's been a long time, but I would still really appreciate hearing your thoughts about the ending. It's always sad to say goodbye to a story!


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